


The Oak and The Ash

by sunryder



Series: The Oak and The Ash [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Timeline? What Timeline?, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:51:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 66,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins was not a particularly talented Guide. He knew that. His family knew that. Every last Hobbit in the four Farthings and Bree knew that.</p><p>But that meant nothing when one morning an agony that wasn’t Bilbo’s ripped right through him, dropping him to his knees with a scream. Wrapped up in the pain there was a presence. Someone fierce and determined, nestling himself in the blank space in Bilbo’s mind for the barest of moments before he slipped away. It was like fingertips brushing across the outside fringe of his soul, and Bilbo wanted it back. Wanted him back.</p><p>And so help him, Bilbo was going to find him. His Sentinel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Oak and The Ash~橡树与白蜡树~](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428274) by [hana0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hana0/pseuds/hana0). 



> This story has taken me a surprising long time to get together, because I had the idea and didn't know what I wanted to do with it. Now that it's here, I hope you like it, and I hope that you completely ignore the lack of canon timeline.
> 
> ETA: A Chinese translation of this work is now available [HERE ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2428274/chapters/5373953) on AO3 and [HERE ](http://www.ahobbit.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=464&page=1&extra=#pid17773) offsite. My thanks to hanao for doing that for me! It's amazing!

Bilbo Baggins was not the Shire’s most talented Guide. In fact, if one were to be particularly honest, he wasn’t the strongest, or the subtlest Guide in Hobbiton, or even in Bagshot Row (although his next door neighbor, Halfred Greenhand, was the best Guide and gardener any of them had ever seen, so that wasn’t a very fair comparison).

Bilbo knew he wasn’t gifted. If Bilbo had been a gambling sort of Hobbit (which he was not, thank you very much) he would’ve bet that every last Hobbit in the four Farthings and Bree knew that Bilbo Baggins was a pathetic excuse for a Guide.

His mother, Belladonna Took, had been a Sentinel so strong that she was very nearly dangerous. When the wolves came upon them in the Fell Winter, it had been Belladonna who’d led the Shire’s defense. She’d dragged out the most practical of her fellow Sentinels and taught them how to use senses that had been finely honed on gardening, to make traps instead. The defense had succeeded, the day had been saved, and Belladonna had been sure to go down in Hobbit legend.

At least, that had been the plan. Until spring came along, and Belladonna Took waltzed right up to Bungo Baggins and thrust out a lopsided bundle of bright blue forget-me-nots. 

Under ordinary circumstances every Hobbit with the smallest bit of common sense knew the plain little flowers meant a declaration of true love (after all, it was right there in the name). Sentinel though she was, Belladonna was still a maid, which meant she received bouquets rather than gave them. (Not that anyone had ever been quite so bold as to offer her forget-me-nots. Usually they were lilacs, or laurels, or borages, or pansies. Things to signify someone’s regard, not their outright devotion.)

But here was the most beloved Hobbit in the Shire, flouting tradition to offer up a shabby bouquet to a member of, quite possibly, the only family who would disapprove of her actions.

Bungo had stood there, staring at the flowers with the same disbelief as everyone else the square. Under the long moments of silence Belladonna began to droop, and even the flowers started to wilt in embarrassment. 

Eventually Bungo stretched out one soft, shaking hand and plucked the flowers out of her grip. Belladonna was too scared to smile and the whole town held its breath while Bungo tilted his head and examined every stem and petal in the bundle. 

Then he started to rip it apart.

The watching Hobbits shrunk back in horror. Tooks and Bagginses weren’t the closest of families in the first place, and this was a blood feud in the making. One of Belladonna’s younger sisters started to weep, while the other puffed up and stormed over to sock Bungo on the nose, but was caught about the waist before she could get there. Belladonna didn’t look mortified, or enraged, but heartbroken. Like she’d actually believed a marriage between the most outrageous Took Sentinel and the most devoutly ordinary Baggins would ever work. 

The gawking public liked to think that Belladonna stood there watching him tear apart her bouquet because she was paying him the respect of waiting for him to actually say no, but she looked so devastated she probably just couldn’t move. 

Bungo ignored all the frantic whispers around him while he busily striped the flowers apart. The spectators saw the occasional leaf go flying, but he was hunched over the flowers at just the right angle that only Belladonna could see what he was doing, and she wasn’t looking. 

Not nearly soon enough, Bungo uncurled and finally saw Belladonna’s expression. He flushed crimson and stretched out his surprisingly steady hands. Hands that cradled a halo of forget-me-nots. Bungo had taken apart the bouquet to put it back together again in just the way tradition dictated a proposal should go. Rather than let Bungo stumble over the appropriate words for the occasion, Belladonna seized him by his finely pressed lapels and dragged him forward into a kiss. 

The story was one of the Shire’s favorites, but as spectacular as it was, that’s when things started to go downhill. 

No one with a desire to remain attached to their good reputation (or their teeth) ever made the mistake of speaking ill of Belladonna or Bungo in front of their friends or family. But that didn’t mean that more than a few people weren’t wondering just what had possessed them both to marry someone who almost everyone else thought was their worst possible match. 

When Bilbo came along, with the scantest, most useless trace of Guide in his gifts, the doubters crowed in triumph. There was even drunken talk of convincing Belladonna to have a fling with that Bracegirdle Guide who’d headed up the North Farthing’s defense from wolves. (Gentle Bungo had dragged that fellow out of the Green Dragon and proved to every Hobbit with sense that he could be just as terrifying as his spouse.)

Now, that wasn’t to say Bilbo was completely incompetent. Not at all. He could grow a garden like any other Hobbit, he just couldn’t feel when the seeds were good, or the plants needed watering, like how other Guides could. And people came to him for mediation, it was because he had a level head and excellent scones, not because he could stretch out his gifts and keep everyone calm no matter the argument. 

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the Rangers knew full well that Bilbo was a lackluster Guide, but they still dropped by Bag End when they were injured. Most assumed it was just because Bilbo never looked at them like they were peculiar. But the Rangers claimed that having Bilbo check their bandages was the surest way to a quick healing. (Which no one, not even Bilbo, understood.)

No matter how odd Bilbo was, his deficient gifts wouldn’t have mattered if ever in his life he had been of use to a Sentinel who wasn’t his mother. Despite those Sentinels who were more than willing to take on such a strange little Guide, Bilbo wouldn’t accept a single one. (And always flitting at the back of their minds was that time when Lobelia Bracegirdle lost her temper and tried to make Bilbo react like a regular Guide. She said his mind was shuttered off like a greenhouse in winter. Hobbits were meant to be open and friendly creatures, their Guides even more so. The thought of a Guide with a closed off mind was unnatural.)

No, it was widely accepted that Bilbo was a terrible Guide, and an odd one at that. But all that certainty meant nothing when one morning an agony that wasn’t Bilbo’s ripped right through him, dropping him to his knees with a scream.

Bilbo could hear the echo of glottal and guttural words, a language he didn’t understand, but still somehow remembered. Wrapped up in the pain there was a presence. Someone fierce and determined, nestling himself in the blank space in Bilbo’s mind for the barest of moments before he slipped away. It was like fingertips brushing across the outside fringe of his soul, and Bilbo wanted it back. Wanted him back.

Every inch of Bilbo’s body ached afterwards, but he still managed to claw his way back to consciousness. All he really wanted to do was slip back to the silence and hope the presence would come again, but deep in his bones he knew it wasn’t going to be there. Bilbo could feel the lingering traces of that sickening pain, and he knew that whatever had given that presence the strength to reach out and touch him, had also ripped him open. 

His whole life Bilbo had been told he was deficient. Their people had expected so much of him, and he couldn’t do them the service of at least being ordinary if he wasn’t going to be extraordinary. Though only the cruelest of Hobbits ever said it, Bilbo knew that not one of them believed he would ever have a Sentinel. Such a strange thing then, to wake up with a pounding headache, cradled in the arms of one of his favorite cousins, and be absolutely certain that his Sentinel had just called to him.

Bilbo opened his eyes to the frankly petrified face of Drogo Baggins looking down at him. Drogo gave a desperate sigh of relief then clutched Bilbo into a thankful hug before he screamed, “Halfred! Adalgrim! Bilbo’s awake!” Bilbo had about three seconds to mourn the loss of his hearing before he picked up frantic footfalls heading from his kitchen. Adalgrim Took darted through Bilbo’s bedroom door only to spill over his own two feet straight onto the floor, while Halfred Greenhand bounced over the fallen Hobbit with more grace than one would expect from a fellow of his age. 

With gentle hands Halfred nudged aside Drogo and pressed his own bare palm to Bilbo’s cheek. Halfred was the most talented of the Shire’s Guides, though there were more than a few who denied it for the sake of their own pride. In his younger years Bilbo had followed Halfred around the garden, and the elderly Hobbit had just smiled and taught Bilbo everything he knew, despite Bilbo’s disadvantage. Even now, Halfred would drop by on Bilbo’s worst days and drag him out into the sunshine to force him through the same exercises that he’d done as a Hobbitling. 

With eyes closed, Halfred slipped over the surface of Bilbo’s mind, seeking out the wound that had made him collapse. Bilbo touched two fingers to the back of Halfred’s hand and unfurled the shields around his own mind like flower petals turned to spring’s first warm light. Nestled at the root of his mind, safely guarded by all the tips and tricks Halfred had taught him—and Bilbo had never believed he would need to use—was a spark. It was shuddering in the aftershocks of pain, and was far dimmer than it would’ve been if Bilbo had his say about it, but it was there.

Halfred’s eyes flew open and he stared at Bilbo with unfettered joy. In wonder, he breathed, “You found your Sentinel.”

“Yes,” Bilbo let himself smile at the certainty in Halfred’s voice. “It seems I did.” There was a beat of silence while the two Guides grinned at one another, then Adalgrim sprang off the floor and dragged Drogo with him into a pile on Bilbo’s bed. In between Adalgrim’s backslapping congratulations and “I always knew you would’s,” Drogo managed sneak in a gentle handshake. 

“Right then, who’s the lucky lass?” Adalgrim crooned. “I bet it’s a Brandybuck isn’t it? Prim’s sister came into her gifts a few weeks ago didn’t she?” 

“Primula’s sister’s name is Asphodel and she manifested as a Guide,” Drogo scolded, like his cousins should have had the same level of fascination with Primula Brandybuck’s family as he did. “And Asphodel…” he petered out with a blush and a shrug to Bilbo.

“She doesn’t think too highly of me. No one in their particular branch of the family does.”

For the most part Adalgrim went about ignoring the people who thought poorly of Bilbo for his lack of skills. He considered them all fools and had long ago embraced the unofficial Brandybuck family motto to “Stay Away From Crazy People.” (Their official motto was something about friends, ale, and a warm hearth, but no one ever actually bothered trying to remember it.) In Adalgrim’s mind the people who didn’t appreciate Bilbo for precisely who he was weren’t worth a speck of his attention, so he rolled his eyes at that declaration and asked for the name of Bilbo’s Sentinel once again.

“Well,” Bilbo tried to straighten out his sleep-rumpled shirt with as much dignity as possible while sitting in bed. “It would appear, that I, well… don’t know.” 

Drogo and Adalgrim shared a long, speaking look, each declaring that the other really ought to be the one to comment. Eventually Adalgrim caved (as he usually did), smacked his lips and declared, “Um, what?”

Drogo rolled his eyes at the ineloquence. “I believe what Adalgrim meant was: ‘how are you being affected by your Sentinel if you do you not know who your Sentinel is?”

“I know the answer to that,” Adalgrim interrupted. 

Drogo pursed his lips and gave Adalgrim a glower that meant he was about ten seconds away from scolding the other Hobbit for raising his voice. Adalgrim hated it when Drogo pursed at him. It made him feel like he was child called in front of the knee of Grandmother Chubb, who was so obsessed with propriety that even Bagginses found it oppressive. “He didn’t have to exchange pleasantries to meet his Sentinel, you know. They might’ve seen one another across the market, or when she was on the road to Bree and Bilbo just didn’t get the chance to say hello.”

“You do recall that Sentinels have to actually touch their Guides to form a bond with them, don’t you?”

Adalgrim puffed out his chest. “Not Bilbo. That rule only applies to normal Guides, and Bilbo’s not normal.”

Blushing, Drogo glowered at his cousin for saying such a thing in front of Bilbo. As good a chap as Drogo was, the Baggins family really would’ve preferred if no one ever mentioned that Bilbo was a Guide at all. From the very beginning, their entire family line had gone unpolluted by such traits. Drogo did his best to skirt any mentions of Bilbo’s gifts, thoroughly uncomfortable with how he thought Bilbo was upset they weren’t stronger, and how his family loathed the thought of a gifted Baggins in the first place. 

Adalgrim rolled his eyes and flopped back to the bed. “Bilbo’s always been stronger than you Bagginses give him credit for. And even if he weren’t, he’s Bilbo, and that’s all he needs to be gifted.” 

Before this had the chance to devolve into another battle of Took v. Baggins: Round 364, Bilbo jumped in. “I haven’t met or seen my Sentinel, lads. Something went wrong on his end of things, and he reached for me.”

Drogo looked to Halfred for confirmation that such a thing was possible, while Adalgrim scooted closer. “But Bil, you collapsed.”

Halfred scolded Drogo with a raise of his bushy eyebrow before he turned to Adalgrim. “I do believe Mister Bilbo’s Sentinel is in rather unfortunate straits. And it certainly helps that Mister Bilbo’s got himself a right strong Sentinel, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. Takes a fair bit of power for an unbonded Sentinel to contact a Guide at all, let alone from whatever distance his young lad reached for him. Although, I can’t imagine what sort of trouble he’s had that he felt the need to call you when he didn’t know whom you were. And for that spot in your mind to hurt quite so much.”

“Why does it hurt?” Adalgrim demanded, popping halfway off the bed like he was going to pick a fight with Bilbo’s Sentinel over the treatment. 

“Now, now,” Halfred soothed, “the fellow didn’t mean to. Bilbo doesn’t have a bond with his Sentinel, so anytime their souls touch there’s going to be a bit of ache with the longing. But the fellow called out to Mister Bilbo across a distance he shouldn’t have been able to reach, to a Guide he shouldn’t have known was there. Part of that was strength, because if the lad wasn’t powerful to begin with then stretching himself out like that would’ve done him in, but the other part was the pain of whatever happened to make him look for Mister Bilbo.”

Bilbo shuddered and reached out to grab Halfred’s shoulder. “He’s not dead. He can’t be dead, can he?”

Halfred pulled Bilbo close with a tut. “You know he’s not Mister Bilbo. If he were you’d feel hollow. That little ache in the back of your heart means that he’s still breathing. Probably in plenty of pain, but alive.”

Bilbo took a shuddering breath in relief. Adalgrim crowded up against Bilbo’s side and tossed his arms around him, murmuring how he’d always known Bilbo would have a Sentinel someplace, and fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to take him away before Bilbo even got the chance to meet him. That comfort was nothing more than Bilbo expected from them, but the real surprise was a spare hand settling in to run soothing strokes through his curls. Bilbo took a moment to appreciate the comfort of being surrounded by his favorite Hobbits in the world, letting the sweet embrace of their emotions sink in to the ache in his chest that had always been there and had only blossomed under the first brush of his Sentinel. 

Drogo dropped a kiss to the crown of Bilbo’s head and slid off the bed. “I suppose we best get packing then.” All three heads popped up to stare at Drogo in disbelief. “I think we ought to leave as soon as possible, hopefully before Grandmother Baggins figures out that Bilbo’s collapse was something more than just the heat.” He strode into the hall, still rambling plans to the three Hobbits who were all looking at one another in confusion. 

They could hear shuffling in one of Bilbo’s hallway closets while Drogo searched. “Halfred and his boys ought to keep an eye on Bag End while we’re away. You know how every time Bilbo gets a cold Lobelia starts crooning about his death, and how inheritance laws ought to trump whatever Bilbo puts in his will. At least we can be sure that Halfred won’t plunder your silver cabinets while we’re away. And anyone with sense will listen to Halfred when he says that running off is what any Guide should do in this situation, and not just a foolhardy Took thing.” Drogo stepped back in the room with Bilbo’s favorite travelling pack slung over his shoulder. “Which might keep either the Tooks or the Bagginses from sending anyone after us.”

With wide eyes, Adalgrim turned to Bilbo. “What does he mean away? And what does he mean, us?” 

Drogo dropped the pack down on the rumpled end of Bilbo’s bed and pulled open the closet doors. “Bilbo’s going after his Sentinel, and we’re going with him.” Drogo started rifling through Bilbo’s clothes, plucking out a few sturdy shirts intermingled with the ones that would make Bilbo look the most dapper when he got there. “I think Bilbo and I ought to pack and head off with you to Tuckborough, then we can get our supplies there while you pack, and we can be off this afternoon.” 

Adalgrim always took a bit longer to catch up to his cousins, but when got there, he made up for the delay in spades. After a long moment he popped off the bed and declared, “Don’t forget his pipe, Dro.” 

Drogo sniffed at the thought he could ever forget such a thing. (His fastidious nature had always made him quite the efficient packer for their various walking holidays.) Halfred rolled his eyes at the two younger Hobbits, and took it upon himself to nudge Bilbo out from under the sheets so he could make the bed, then moved about Bag End closing up windows and shutting the flues. 

Bilbo stood open-mouthed while Adalgrim started grabbing things off shelves and tossing them to the bedspread, while Drogo tried to continue his methodical packing and put away the mess Adalgrim was making at the same time. (Drogo did concede to the value of parchment, spare ink, and handkerchiefs though.) Bilbo couldn’t seem to make himself move from his stupor until Adalgrim shoved a change of clothes into Bilbo’s hands and pushed him towards the bathroom. Bilbo dug in his heels and demanded, “What is going on here?”

“You’re going to find your Sentinel, and we’re going with you.”

“I hadn’t…”

Drogo quirked an eyebrow. “You honestly mean to tell us that the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind to go running off and find out what happened to him? To fix it?”

“And even if it hadn’t,” Adalgrim added, “it certainly would’ve if we’d left you alone to think for a few minutes.”

“And since you going to find your Sentinel is inevitable, it’s only right that we go with you to look for him. It wouldn’t be proper otherwise.”

Bilbo folded his arms with a huff. “I am perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you very much.”

“It’s not a matter of looking after yourself,” Drogo consoled, while Adalgrim got straight to the point.

“We can’t very well let our unbounded cousin go running off to meet his Sentinel alone, now can we?”

Bilbo at least had the grace to flush at the implication. “Yes, well, point made.”

Adalgrim tossed his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder while Drogo handed him his pack, sparing Bilbo from having such a conversation. “Come on then lads. It’ll be an adventure!” 

“There’s no need to be crass,” Drogo scolded, safely tucked into Bilbo’s other side. Bilbo gave Halfred an awkward waive goodbye and let himself be dragged out his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you wanted to know, the casting of OC's in my head:
> 
> Bungo Baggins - Alan Rickman  
> Belladonna Baggins - Emma Thompson  
> Adalgrim Took - Ewan McGregor  
> Drogo Baggins - Colin Firth


	2. Chapter 2

Drogo Baggins and Adalgrim Took agreed on very few things. They agreed that Belladonna Baggins nee Took had been the best storyteller in the Shire, that Rorimac Brandybuck was a dreadful bore but dealing with him was a small price to pay for his mother’s stunning apple pie, and Sackville-Bagginses were relatives to be endured, not enjoyed. 

However, they were rapidly beginning to agree on a fourth: this had been a terrible idea. 

The rain had started the night before and devolved into a downpour. Soon enough the Great East Road had become nothing more than a river of mud, and they’d squelched and slipped off the path to get under the trees for a bit more protection. When the rain pelted them with fat drops that plopped through the protecting leaves, they pressed on into the forest, hoping that they might find something dry. When darkness began to fall, even Adalgrim stopped prancing through the rain like it was all some grand game. Weather was far less enjoyable when you realized there was no steaming mug of cocoa waiting for you after you’d changed into dry clothes. 

On a typical night (if any night three Hobbits were pressing through the wilds could’ve been called typical), they would’ve settled down before sunset, laying out their bedrolls and stoking a fire. But tonight, they kept walking. Bilbo pressed on into the unnatural dark of the trees, ignoring the looks his cousins were exchanging behind his back.

Drogo and Adalgrim had spent most of their lives learning to navigate the vagaries of Bilbo’s temperament. Not a soul in the Shire had been surprised that the blending of a Baggins and a Took led to a fellow who would flit back and forth between the two natures based upon the day. Sometimes Bilbo was an adventurer, dragging them both into the woods outside Buckland, while other days all he wanted to do was spend long hours tucked away in the safety of his father’s library reading dry histories. Bilbo was always Bilbo (kind and clever), but you never quite knew when he was going to be Bilbo Baggins, or Bilbo Took.

That confusion meant that Drogo and Adalgrim had long ago learned to communicate through a series of furrowed brows, puckered lips, and the occasional subvocal sigh. Really, it was the only way to form a plan to distract Bilbo when he was bound and determined to get lost in the woods when all his cousins wanted to do was sneak a pie from Grandmother Grubb’s windowsill. 

The two Hobbits were making good use of those skills tonight. What light there might have been to protect them from the looming presence of the dark was drowned out by storm clouds. Despite their sodden feet being soaked to the bone, Drogo and Adalgrim had thus far kept their opinions to themselves because there was no place worth the effort to stop. Every leaf funneled down rivulets onto their hoods, too soaked to be of use. But now, there was still no proper place to stop, the rain wasn’t letting up, and the two Hobbits just wanted to go home. They were tired, they were wet, they were cold, they were hungry, and Bilbo just kept walking. No, the cousins had agreed that it was far past time to drag Bilbo home before they set out again with a plan that was a bit more practical. (Perhaps one involving tents.)

However, but the time the two Hobbits had finished their discussion while managing not to say a word, Bilbo had vanished. They had been so wrapped up in their conversation that neither Drogo nor Adalgrim had realized that they were falling behind. Drogo huffed out a sigh to call out for Bilbo, but Adalgrim grabbed his forearm. “Do you feel that?”

Drogo wanted to snap something vicious and annoyed about easily distractible Tooks, but he felt the ground shudder beneath his feet. “Th-thunder?” he guessed.

Adalgrim did him the courtesy of pretending like that wasn’t a ridiculous answer though they both knew it was. Thunder shook everything, but this was coming from below them. And the shuddering was getting stronger. The two Hobbits whipped around in a circle, trying to find what was causing the noise without actually exposing themselves to it. Neither Hobbit would willingly admit that they were terrified, so instead they kept their forearms pressed together while they spun.

Soon the trees were shaking as the thuds grew steadily closer. As if the rain wasn’t enough, now the threes were shivering with the thuds. The sound was nearly upon them by the time Drogo actually caught a glimpse of something through the downpour. He stuttered out his hand and gripped Adalgrim’s sleeve, dragging him back around to see flashes of sickly pale skin peeking through the trees. At least, he thought it was skin. The creature descending upon them was too large to see the whole of it through the gaps in the branches and they only caught the flash of a thigh, and the swell of a shoulder.

That is, until one barrel-thick arm swung across the open space and crushed into the single tree separating them from the creature. In a squelch of mud and rain, the tree went down, and there stood the oddest thing either Hobbit had ever seen. He was upright, but hunched forward with long arms nearly scraping the ground. They could distinguish the basic features of a face, lopsided eyes and bulbous nose that they were. 

The Hobbits and the creature just stared at one another for a long moment before the creature lashed out one massive hand and tried to gather them up. Adalgrim dropped to a roll while Drogo darted to the side, each avoiding that first pass. But on the second, the creature caught Drogo around the waist and despite Adalgrim’s attempts to dart over slick leaves and around trees, the creature snatched him as well. Adalgrim and Drogo tried to wriggle out of the creature’s grip, but it shouted, “Oye, stop squirmin’.” 

That the creature could speak at all was enough to distract them both from trying to get free. “What?” Adalgrim croaked.

“I said stop squirmin’ before I drop ye.”

Adalgrim and Drogo exchanged a look that said that was hardly a deterrent, but they agreed it wasn’t the best thing to say when your chest was gripped by a creature that could crush you as soon as look at you. The thing leaned closer to sniff them, then reared back and declared, “You ain’t Dwarves!”

“No, no we are not,” Drogo replied in the most level tone he could manage. 

“Well then, what are yer?”

Drogo puffed out his chest. “We are—” he began, only to be silenced by a sharp kick from Adalgrim.

“Half-folk.” 

“Yer what?”

“Half-folk.” Drogo accepted the wisdom in not telling an unknown creature precisely what they were or how to get back to their home and instead nodded like that was precisely what he was going to say. 

“Huh,” the creature grunted. “I ain’t never heard o’ no ‘half-folk’ before.”

“Well, as you can see, we’re very small. More often than not people overlook us.” Drogo explained. 

“Too right, you ain’t more than a mouthful. But I supposed you’re better ‘an rabbits.” The creature gave them a sharp nod and started back through the woods and the path of destruction he’d rendered to various and assorted trees along the way. 

“Um,” Adalgrim tossed back his head to flick some of the rain out of his face. “Better than rabbits at what, exactly?”

“Dinner.”

“Cooking dinner?” He asked, tentatively. 

The creature scoffed. “Bein’ dinner.” 

Drogo gulped back the panic attack he could feel about to descend. “I see. If we are to be eaten, might I ask what it is that intends to do the eating?”

“Me? I’m Bill.”

Drogo bit his lip to keep from rolling his eyes like he so desperately wanted to. “And what precisely are you, Bill? May I call you Bill?”

“You can call me whatever you want. You’ll be dead soon. And I’m a Troll. Ain’t you never heard o’ Trolls before?”

“No, we haven’t,” Adalgrim all but spat. “You haven’t heard of us, why should we have heard of you?”

Drogo kicked out with one furry foot and smacked him with as much force as possible. Adalgrim did roll his eyes, but at least had the sense to look off to the side when he did it. But when he turned, he caught sight of sodden, golden curls slipping along behind them. Adalgrim called out, “Bilbo!” before he could think better of it.

The Troll was dumb, but he wasn’t an idiot, and he followed Adalgrim’s eyes to the ferns where, thankfully, Bilbo wasn’t anymore. “What’s a Bilbo?” he demanded, shaking both Hobbits. “Ere there more o’ you Half-folk?”

“No!” Drogo shouted before Adalgrim had a chance to answer. “Not at all, he was just calling for help.”

The Troll furrowed its already craggy brow. “That don’t sound like help.”

“He was speaking our native language instead of Westron.” 

“You got ‘nother language than this ‘un? I ain’t never heard o’ that before.”

“We do.” Adalgrim nodded along frantically with Drogo’s words. “But we keep it secret from other races. It’s our own special language.”

“Really?” the troll asked, suspiciously. If that’s your language, then tell me somethin’ else.”

Drogo looked to Adalgrim with poorly concealed panic. Adalagrim, however, was a Took, which made him a natural liar. He smoothed out his expression and adopted the same sort of polite smile he used when he was caught with his hand directly in the cookie jar. “Isengrim hildigard isumbras hildigrim isembold hildifons isembard hildibrand belladonna donnamira mirabella isengar.”

The troll just stared at Adalgrim like he’d rambled off a string of incoherent words (which were in fact the names of his aunts and uncles in appropriate order), but the Hobbit smiled as though he’d never stolen a cookie in his life. “And what’s that mean then?”

“It means, ‘Hello. How are you doing today?’”

“Seems like a lot o’ words for saying so little.”

Adalgrim turned to Drogo and widened his eyes to nudge the other Hobbit along. “Oh, well,” he stammered. “f I was to say, ‘I am doing well, thank you.’ I would respond, ‘Rorimac amaranth sardas dodinas asphodel dinodas primula.” Which were the names of his sweetheart’s siblings, but the Troll seemed to trust Drogo a bit more than his cousin and finally nodded in acceptance. 

Thankfully, they stepped into a fire-lit clearing before Bill had the chance to question them further. “Oye you lot, look at what I found!” Bill explained to the other two Trolls what precisely a Half-folk was, and that he suspected their funny language might give them a bit of a funny taste. “But they’re more ‘en usually comes out in the rain.” 

A Troll with a strange, almost melted face hunched forward and sniffed Adalgrim so hard his chestnut hair stood up on end. “They smell like dirt.”

Drogo glowered at Adalgrim before he had the chance to snap something back about how it was raining, of course they smelled like mud, and mud was a right sight better than what the Trolls smelled like. Adalgrim huffed out a short breath and replied, “I’d advise against eating us.”

The third troll (who managed to have an even more craggy, fearsome face than the other two), growled, “We’ve had worse than you and cleverer than you. Don’t try and talk us out of eatin’ you for dinner.” 

Adalgrim bit his lip and looked off to the side to keep himself from losing his temper. Tangled with the weeds, he caught sight of Bilbo once again, and fought to keep a smile off his face. The Trolls might have eaten cleverer than him and Drogo, but he doubted they’d come across someone like Bilbo before. The golden-haired Hobbit pointed up to the sky, and Adalgrim looked up to see what he was pointing to. 

“What you lookin’ at?” the sniffing troll demanded to know. Adalgrim jumped at the interruption, and couldn’t help looking over to Bilbo while the rest of the party looked up to the rainclouds. Bilbo pointed up again, this time with emphasis. 

Adalgrim tilted his head back and scoffed. “Don’t you see it?”

“Don’t see what?” Bill demanded. 

He could feel Drogo’s eyes on him, completely baffled, but Adalgrim pressed on. “That! There!”

“I see it!” Bill shouted, and soon enough the Trolls were in an argument about what they could and couldn’t see up in the clouds. Adalgrim glanced down in time to see Bilbo drop two massive handfuls of a plant into the steaming pot. 

Drogo caught Adalgrim’s focus out of the corner of his eye and saw Bilbo scampering back into the ferns. He hadn’t seen Bilbo leave the plants, but in the pale light of the fire he saw one leaf that hadn’t quite made it into the pot stuck to the cauldron’s inner edge. It was all he could do not to giggle. “As fascinating as whatever it is up in those clouds, I have a concern.” 

“I told you,” the angry Troll growled, “we ain’t lettin’ you go.”

“Oh I’m not worried about that,” Drogo scoffed, like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “I’m concerned that we’re going to taste terrible.”

The three trolls and one Hobbit stared at him like he was mad. “What?” 

“Well, I had always expected to die in some food-related manner, however I had assumed that I would be the one eating rather than the one eaten. Despite that, I can accept being the subject of someone else’s meal, after all it only seems fair after all the eating I’ve done. But I can’t abide the thought that I won’t taste good.” 

The angry Troll was going to growl something else, but the fellow who had sniffed them thwacked the other Troll upside the head with his wooden spoon. “Whatcha mean?” 

“I mean that you haven’t tasted that broth since you smelled us, so you have no idea whether or not it will work with our unusual Half-folk flavor. I’d hate to spend my last moments on earth being drowned out by an improperly brewed broth.”

Drogo felt the moment realization split across Adalgrim’s face and he started nodding along. “It’s true. There’s no greater insult to a Half-folk than to serve them a bad meal. I can’t fathom the insult of being that bad meal.”

The Troll in charge of the meal gave a brusque nod. “Yer right.” He took up one massive spoonful of broth and drained it. He smacked his lips and declared, “Tastes alright to me.” 

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” Drogo objected. “You can’t do it like that. You have to drink the broth while you’re smelling us. And I absolutely refuse to be put in that pot until you’ve all sampled it, just to make sure. I won’t go to my end and taste like watered-down broth.”

Bill was more than willing to take several spoonfuls of broth while sniffing the Hobbits. The sour-faced fellow looked like he wanted to object, but had decided that his meal agreeing to go into the pot was worth the hassle of pre-dinner sampling. After one final taste, Bill started to cough. The coughs were great and shuddering, shaking the Hobbits in his fists. He hunched over and dropped Adalgrim to free his hand so he could press his palm to his chest. Drogo turned to the Troll in charge of cooking and said, “It must have gone down the wrong pipe. You ought to give him another drink to help him clear it out.”

The Troll nodded along, trusting in the little creature who’d been so determined to help him with dinner. The Troll poured a good portion of the pot down Bill’s throat, distracting him enough that Drogo was dropped as well. The cooking Troll then started to cough and he dropped his spoon to rip away the cauldron and guzzle the leftover broth. He was so preoccupied with drinking that he never noticed when his companions shuddered and dropped to the ground, or when the cauldron slipped from his grip and he collapsed as well. 

Bilbo popped out of the ferns and caught his cousins up in a shaking hug. “What did you put in there?” Adalgrim demanded.

“Belladonna,” Drogo and Bilbo laughed breathlessly. The giggles were more out of the surprise that they’d survived than any genuine amusement. 

“I thought my Mum would appreciate her namesake being used to take down Trolls.” Bilbo shrugged. 

Drogo staggered away from the hug to stare down at the three massive Trolls who they’d managed to escape whole and unscathed. Then he stared a little harder. “B-Bilbo,” Drogo stammered out. “I think they’re dead.”

Adalgrim dropped to his knees in front of Bill and waited for the rush of air that mean an exhale. When it never came, he looked back up with wide, terrified eyes. “I think Dro’s right.”

While his cousins were horrified, Bilbo didn’t look like he minded at all. “How am I supposed to know how much Belladonna a Troll needs to put them to sleep?”

“But Bil—”

“They tried to kill you, Addy.” Bilbo gripped him by the shoulders and gave his cousin a good shake. “I couldn’t let them hurt you, and I don’t care what happened to them so long as you come out alright.”

Drogo looked as though he didn’t know whether to be horrified or terrified, but Adalgrim gave him a small shake of the head no, this wasn’t the time to talk about it. Adalgrim had far more Sentinels and Guides roaming around his family tree, including several siblings. That meant he knew the look the strongest of them sometimes got when they thought their family was being threatened, and it was the same look peering out from behind Bilbo’s eyes. (Though he had to admit, when a Took felt threatened they resorted to scolding and backbiting, not death.)

Adalgrim grabbed his cousins by their jacket sleeves and started to drag them away from the clearing. “Come on, we need to get out of here. I don’t want to be around for whatever decides that Troll is good to eat.” 

The three Hobbits stumbled towards the edge of the clearing, not caring what direction they were going, when a snarl sounded behind them. The dreadful Troll loped up to his knees, managing to force his way through the haze of the Belladonna leaves. He lashed out with one thick hand, trying to swat the Hobbits like flies. Adalgrim and Drogo stumbled back to get out of range, but Bilbo, Bilbo stepped forward with a roar, and the Troll’s eye rolled back in his head and he dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

They stood there for a moment, letting the last haze of rain spill down on them while they stared at the third dead Troll. Bilbo huffed something close to “good riddance” under his breath and gathered up his cousins to press back on into the dark. Drogo turned away from the body, grateful that the Belladonna had taken over when it did, while Adalgrim kept his eyes on the corpse for as long as he could, not entirely sure what had just happened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for how long this chapter has taken to come to you, but real life and xmrbb deadlines cropped up.

The were exhausted, and they were soaked, and they were starving, and they were _Hobbits,_ which really, was all the explanation needed for why they had only stumbled twenty paces outside of the Troll-infested woods and curled up under the closest outcropping with no thought about why that might be a bad idea.

 

So the next morning, three shivering Hobbits woke to the snap of Warg jaws perilously close to Adalgrim’s mahogany curls.

 

Adalgrim flicked out his hand to bat them away, thinking the puff of hot air against his neck was one of the cousins irritating him awake. The creature snarled at its target so temptingly close, and flecks of spittle dotted Adalgrim’s skin. The Hobbit flinched back like it was raining again, and he rolled over to declare that he didn’t care how much Bilbo wanted to see his Sentinel, Adalgrim was not spending another day tromping about in the rain. The Warg chose that moment to rear forward, cramming its snapping jaws into the crack where the Hobbits were hiding, like this time it would snare the sleeping Hobbits between its teeth.

 

At that, Adalgrim’s sarcastic good morning gave way to a scream.

 

A scream that doubled when the Warg froze mid-snarl and it’s head tumbled away one direction while its body tumbled another.

 

Adalgrim shrieked, because it was either that or vomit at the sight of so much blood. He scrambled back, the frantic motions forcing his cousins along behind him. Drogo grumbled something insulting when Adalgrim’s heel collided with his stomach, but he screeched just the same when Adalgrim hauled him upright and pointed to the decapitated Warg.

 

Beyond the body now penning them in, the plain was scattered with Orcs being shot off their bedraggled mounts. Eight Elves on horseback cut through the herd of Orcs like they were sun-warmed butter. The pale light of early morning glinted off their silver armor as they fired one shot after another from their gracefully curved bows. The Elves were divided into teams of two, each with an archer picking off the Orcs and a swordsman to cut them down when they ventured too close.  

 

The still-bleeding Warg before them had been beheaded by a lean Elf standing shoulder to shoulder with his broader, bow-wielding counterpart. While the rest of the Elves were atop their horses, herding the Wargs into the line of fire, these two had dismounted to take up a position between the Hobbits and whatever Orc or Warg might try for them again.

 

Sooner than the Hobbits had expected (battles seemed to go on much longer when they happened in books) the enemy was nothing more than corpses. Adalgrim stared at the bodies in a morbid sort of fascination, while Bilbo and Drogo took in the two Elves who had been their last line of defense. Without a word to one another, the Elf with a bow stepped out onto the battlefield and began issuing orders while he collected their horses, and the Elf with a sword turned to face the Hobbits.

 

Considering that this fellow had just killed more creatures than they could count, the smile on his face probably shouldn’t have been quite so comforting as it was. But Bilbo slipped out from under the overhang without a second thought, and his cousins stumbled along after.

 

As the only Hobbit who had any Middle-earthly idea about what was going on, Drogo gave Bilbo a moment to say hellos on behalf of their party. But when Bilbo did no more than stare at the blue-eyed Elf approaching them, Drogo took matters into his own hands. He straightened out his still-sodden jacket and wiped off some of the dregs of dirt clinging to his elbows. “Well, thank you for… saving our lives, I suppose. We appreciate it.”

 

If possible, the Elf’s grin grew. He dropped to one knee before Bilbo and gave a slight dip of his head, acknowledging that he’d heard Drogo’s statement even if he wasn’t going to look at the other Hobbit. “I am Elladan, son of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. That,” he nodded back to his companion, “Is my brother, Elrohir. We were on patrol with this company when we heard your call.”

 

“Call? What call?” That seemed to draw Adalgrim out of his fascination with the carnage around them. “We were asleep when those things started sniffing about.”

 

With far better manners, Drogo decided that questioning Elves about their strange euphemisms was not the appropriate response to people who had just saved their lives. Drogo elbowed Adalgrim hard and put on his most genial smile. “What he meant to say was, ‘thank you.’ And we are all grateful for your help. I am Drogo Baggins, this is my cousin Bilbo Baggins, and this is _Bilbo’s_ cousin, Adalgrim Took.”

 

Drogo had patted Bilbo’s shoulder during introductions, expecting Bilbo to show the giddy sort of glee that Tooks always did when someone started talking about Elves. But Bilbo still wasn’t paying a speck of attention. Instead, he was staring at Elladan like the Elf was the only thing in the world that existed. At that, Drogo started to panic. A non-Hobbit would be difficult enough, but there was no way he was going to be able to explain to Grandmother Baggins that he’d let Bilbo bond with an Elf Sentinel.

 

“You’re a Guide,” Bilbo murmured, thankfully before Drogo had the chance to work himself into a tizzy.

 

Elladan nearly started to glow. “That I am, Master Baggins. I am a _Gûr_ among Elves, a Guide to your people. The same as you.”

 

“But,” Bilbo furrowed his brow. “I’ve never felt a Guide like you before. You’re… _sharp_ , almost. Still soothing, but sharp.”

 

“That is because I’m not a Hobbit. And my people do things differently than your Gifted.”

 

“Well that’s obvious,” Adalgrim interrupted, breaking the moment.

 

Elladan finally looked over from Bilbo. “Obvious it might be, Mister Took, but that is still the reason.” In one smooth motion the Elf rose to his feet, still smiling, but his eyes scanning the horizon rather than the Hobbits before him. “It is a discussion that I would enjoy having with you, but one that would be best to defer until after we have entered the safety of Imladris. There could well be more Orcs on the way and I would prefer not to meet them on this open ground.”  

 

“More Orcs?” Drogo squeaked, and that was all the consent Elladan needed. Without uttering a word to his soldiers, each of the Hobbits were gathered up by an Elf and slipped into waiting saddles. Drogo tried to squeak something about propriety, but the company moved too quickly.

 

Considering that Bilbo wasn’t terribly fond of ponies, straddling a too-thick horse and hoping he wasn’t about to do anything so undignified as fall and be trampled, was not his preferred method of transportation. However, Bilbo’s fear was soon outweighed by his curiosity. He accepted that the arms Elladan had wrapped around him would be fairly difficult to avoid if he did happen to fall, and more importantly, asking questions got awkward when Bilbo refused to open his eyes. 

 

Bilbo sucked in a deep breath and slowly eeked his eyes open. Off to his right Drogo had all but curled up into a ball and buried himself in his rider’s chest, while off to the left Adalgrim was giggling like he did when they went sledding down the big hill. Deciding to behave like neither of his cousins at this moment, Bilbo tilted his back and asked, “Should Elrohir be that far away from the rest of us?” Out in front of the group Elrohir was riding alone, which put Bilbo and Elladan at the center of the companions. Bilbo assumed it was because Elladan had no partner to fight beside.  

 

“Have no fear Master Baggins, Elrohir’s senses are so finely honed that he could hear a Warg breathing before the creature even though to catch his scent.”

 

Bilbo was perhaps the only soul in the Shire who could take that for the praise it was. Hobbits rarely had call to scent things from a distance, preferring to use their noses to know when pies were perfectly cooked and rain was on the horizon. Belladonna though, she had used her nose to tell when the Rangers were coming, or wolves were venturing too near. “Oh! So your brother is a Sentinel, then?”

 

“He is indeed. A _Cundo_. A Sentinel second only to our father in strength through the whole of Elvenkind.”

 

Bilbo watched Elrohir ride in a slow arc in front of their party, his bright, blue eyes always searching. He was broader than his brother, but had the same chiseled features, and the slightest curl to his black hair. Something in Bilbo ached at the sight. “He goes out to battle without a Guide?”

 

Elladan slipped one hand off the reigns and tugged Bilbo a little closer in a hug at the pain he didn’t mean to project. “I am his Guide. Were my brother’s skills less, he would be able to endure the sensory barrage of battle with ease, but he is too strong to go without. We are like Dwarves in that respect.”

 

“Howso? Don’t Sentinels among Men need Guides as well?”

 

“ _All_ Human Sentinels need Guides. Even their weak Sentinels ache for the support of a Guide, and without that they will die young. For them the need to bond is so great that they are able to bond with any compatible Guide.”

 

“Anyone? Really?”

 

“A strong Sentinel will prefer a strong Guide, of course. But for Humans, bonding is a matter of necessity foremost and preference second. Some might hold out for a perfect match, but it is not the driving urge Elves and Dwarves get to seek out our One.”

 

Bilbo hmmed in curiosity. “Well isn’t that odd.”

 

“Is it not so for Hobbits? Or are you more like Men?”

 

“A bit of both, I suppose. Our Sentinels and Guides can sense their perfect partners like you do, but we don’t have to bond with them in any way, or we could bond with anyone, like the Men do. Usually it’s enough for Hobbits that a Sentinel and a compatible Guide live in the same village, or are close enough to see one another every few months. My own mother hardly ever saw her Guide, and when she did it was… fractious to say the least.”

 

“Truly? She had bonded with a Guide and there were no ill effects from the separation?” Elladan sounded surprised.

 

“Oh goodness no!” Bilbo giggled at the absurdity of it. “Few Hobbits bond like others do. The Shire is small enough that should a Sentinel be in a bad way their Guide, the one they would’ve bonded with if we were another species, isn’t more than a day away, all without the hassle of bonding. If the two go so far as to actually bond, then that bond has to be nurtured, which means living next door, or even getting married. And my mother detested the fellow who was her Guide, so no bonding there.”

 

“Was your father a Guide then?”

 

“Not at all. My father was the simplest Hobbit you ever met in your life, and my mother was the oddest. She was a particularly strong Sentinel, in Hobbit terms at least, and every last Guide in the Four Farthings wanted her. But she wanted my father, who hadn’t a speck of gifted blood anywhere in his veins. She did without a Guide most of the time, but when she needed help our gardener, Halfred Greenhand, was just down the lane.”

 

“And that didn’t make things awkward for your father?” Elladan asked, a little hesitantly.

 

Bilbo outright laughed at the image of Bungo Baggins and Halfred Greenhand so much as raising their voices let alone having a fight. “Goodness no. Halfred was my father’s best friend, and his wife was my mother’s. In fact, Halfred was the one who taught me everything I know about being a Guide, and he didn’t mind one jot that I really am quite terrible at it.”

 

Had Bilbo not been facing forward on a horse he would’ve seen the look of abject disbelief on Elladan’s face. Had he been paying a bit more attention he also might’ve caught Elrohir twist around in his saddle and look back at his brother like his senses must’ve failed him in his eavesdropping. Elladan sucked in a deep breath, and Elrohir gave him a sharp shake of the head. On horseback, in the middle of the wilds, under the looming threat of more Orcs hunting the very Hobbit Elladan was protecting, was not the best place for this conversation.

 

Elladan puffed out a sharp sigh and forced all bafflement out of his voice. “Is that why you didn’t ask about my brother being my Sentinel?”

 

“Why would I?” Bilbo tilted back in the saddle and looked up at Elladan, genuinely confused.

 

“Bonding between blood relatives tends to make Men uncomfortable.” Elladan shrugged.

 

Bilbo quirked an eyebrow. “As you are not a Hobbit, I am not a Man.”

 

Elladan smirked at that, the last of his upset fading away at the Hobbit’s good spirits. “No, no you are not. I should not have assumed that because of your proximity to Bree that you would share their prejudices.”

 

“Certainly not. You should be ashamed of yourself for such a horrible notion,” Bilbo teased. “A Hobbit having all the quirks and oddities of Men? Perish the thought.”

 

Elladan shook with laughter, tendrils of curly hair slipping loose to tumble around his face. “My dear Master Baggins, I know just the way to atone for my offense. Your Mister Greenhand might have taught you everything he knew, but I can teach you all manner of things about being a Guide that are known only by the Elves.”

 

“Really?” Bilbo very nearly started to bounce in the saddle. “And do you think I’d be strong enough to use any of your tricks?”

 

Elladan bit his lip to keep himself quiet, then smiled. “Master Baggins, I am sure of it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since people really seemed to enjoy my cast notes before...
> 
> Elladan - Matt Bomer  
> Elrohir - Henry Cavill
> 
> (I prefer it when twins aren't played by the same actor.)


	4. Chapter 4

“You should rest, Bilbo.”

“I prefer to do my sleeping in beds, if it’s all the same to you.”

Elladan laughed that the Hobbit could still be snarking when he was listing off to the side on the saddle. Bilbo would have long ago tumbled down to the dirt if Elladan didn’t have his arm firmly wrapped around the Hobbit’s waist. “I understand your preference for comfortable sleeping places, but he won’t get better with you exhausted like this. Your strength is his strength.”

“He who?” Even if Bilbo had not been tucked against Elladan’s front, the Elf still would’ve felt the Hobbit stiffen at the insinuation. 

Elladan ran a soothing hand through Bilbo’s curls and reached out with as gentle a mental touch as he could manage. He was better skilled in the arts of war, so he supposed he simply ought to be grateful that Bilbo gave him a smile for trying to soothe him. “You are an unbonded Guide terribly far from the safety of your homeland. Few of the peoples in Middle-earth would allow a Guide to venture so far without the protection of a Sentinel, and none at all would permit such a journey for one unbounded. I can assume what you’re looking for.”

“Why? Hobbits don’t like leaving home, but what problem does everyone else have with letting their Guides roam about?” 

Elladan paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, and to let Bilbo ignore the chance to discuss his Sentinel. “Tell me, Master Hobbit, what do you know of Orcs?”

“Beyond their general foulness and that they ride those wolf-like creatures? Not a thing.”

“The powers of evil cannot create things for themselves. All they can do is pervert the creations of Ilúvatar, he who made the world. Orcs were once Elves, those taken by the dark powers and tortured until they became something foul. Though now these Orcs bear nothing but the most passing of resemblances to my people, they still possess a speck of Elven blood, and because of that blood, some Orcs are born Sentinels.”

Bilbo very nearly twisted himself right out of the saddle at that, trying to stare up at Elladan in complete disbelief. “Every Elf is Gifted, either a Cundo or a Gûr, a Sentinel or Guide. The Orcs who bear this gift because of our blood are few and far between, but when they do, they are an abomination above and beyond their whole species.”

Sheltered though he may have been in the Shire, Bilbo Baggins was not a fool. Elladan had slipped past a discussion of Orcs and gone straight to Orcish Sentinels for a purpose. “You think they were looking for me?” It was the only rational reason Elladan would speak of such a horrible thing to a fellow Guide, though Bilbo couldn’t understand why any Sentinel, no matter how foul, would look for him.

“Because of the corruption in their blood, there are no Orcish Guides. Those who might be, die in the womb, the empathy of our kind unable to survive the corruption inherent in their race.”

“So, they… hunt wandering Guides because they don’t have their own?”

“This is why it is almost unheard of for an unbounded Guide to travel without all the protection their people can give them. Fear that the worst of the creatures might find them and force a bond.”

“But, Hobbit Guides roam around the Shire all the time without Sentinels!” Bilbo was torn between the urge to demand that Elladan take him back to the Shire right now so he could warn his people, and the knowledge that somewhere out there was his Sentinel. 

Before Bilbo worked himself into a fervor over the decision, Elladan interrupted. “The Shire is protected. Not only by the Rangers who patrol its borders to keep out Orcs, but by Yavanna. While your people are within the bounds of the Shire, they remain protected from those gifted who would do them harm. And even if they should cross the borders, there are few Shirelings who would draw the attention of so wretched a breed of Sentinel.”

“So, they weren’t looking for me then?” Bilbo asked, a mixture of relief and confusion. 

Elladan would never be confused for the most diplomatic of Elves, but even he knew that the back of a horse was not the best place for this conversation. However, he couldn’t stop himself from planting the seeds. “Mister Baggins, where is Elrohir?” Without a second thought, Bilbo pointed a little forward and off to the left. Elladan nodded. “And how did you know?”

“Because I can see—” Bilbo’s scoff trailed off into nothing when he realized that Elrohir had ventured beyond the rolling hills and was nowhere in sight. “I suppose it was the last place I saw him.”

“No Master Baggins, you were certain. You knew where he was without a wasted moment. Without looking, or mulling about where he might be. You knew.”

“And what does that mean to you?”

“It means that, perhaps, your gifts are not quite so weak as you have believed, but that they are simply different than the kind of gifts you might normally see in the Shire.” Elladan was careful not to use the word ‘strong,’ and to avoid pointing out that Bilbo’s gifts may not have been right for a Hobbit, but perfect for the more fierce inhabitants of Middle-earth. He was certain not to say that Bilbo was gifted Guide that any unbounded Sentinel would love to have, and more than a few bonded Sentinels would force a secondary bond with Bilbo simply to avail themselves of his strength. 

If Bilbo’s Sentinel was not who Elladan suspected he was, then Bilbo and his Sentinel would need to spend at least the next decade in Rivendell for their own safety. Erebor and the Dwarven kingdoms, as well as those kingdoms of Men that relied on the Dwarves for their trade, were all held under the sway of Thrór, who grew crueler with each passing year and would use the little Hobbit for his own ends. Elladan didn’t trust the Steward of Gondor as far as he could throw him, Thranduil would offer no sanctuary to anyone that wasn’t an Elf, and Rohan was too close to Saruman for Elladan’s comfort. No, if Elladan was wrong about Bilbo’s Sentinel, then the Hobbit would need to be spirited away in the dead of night and hidden among Elves to keep both him and his Sentinel alive. 

“Wh- what gifts do you think I might have?” There was such tentative hope in Bilbo’s voice that it was all Elladan could do not to tell him everything. He contemplated it for half a moment before deciding that this would involve telling Bilbo a thing or two he and Elrohir had decided would be best to keep for themselves for the time being. After all, it would be difficult to convince Bilbo that, when attacked by Trolls, all Guides so loudly projected their terror that Elrond himself felt the panic all the way in Rivendell and sent his sons to find the Guide and protect it. (Elladan was also anxious to avoid discussing that they’d found the Trolls and tracked Bilbo from there, and Elladan knew full well how those creatures had died.)

“What made you seek your Sentinel?”

Bilbo bristled a little. “I don’t see what that has to do with my gifts.”

“Humor me, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo grumbled something about how he thought he’d left behind the busybodies in the Shire, but still explained how he’d felt his Sentinel call out to him in pain, and he’d left the Shire immediately. “Now will you tell me why you asked?”

“Is it a common Hobbit gift to be able to sense your Sentinel when they are in distress?”

“Not particularly, no. Though, Hobbits are rarely in any sort of distress beyond overeating.” 

Elladan chuckled at the easy way a person so clever as Bilbo still managed to completely miss the point. “And yet, you were able to sense your Sentinel when he was in distress. And to sense Elrohir even though he’s not distressed at all, and isn’t your Sentinel.”

“You can tell how Elrohir’s feeling even though he’s not upset?”

“And you can do the same.” 

“So, it’s an Elvish trait then? But how did I get an Elvish trait?”

“It’s not solely Elvish. The Guides of Dwarves and Men can do the same for their bonded. I would think that you have never seemed like quite the normal Hobbit Guide because you aren’t going to be guiding a Hobbit.”

“I don’t suppose there is a forgotten colony of Hobbits somewhere out here, is there?” Bilbo squeaked. 

Elladan absolutely did not laugh at the strange mix of worry and wonder in Bilbo’s voice. “Well, where is your Sentinel?”

For the whole ride Bilbo had looked dreadfully uncomfortable, but the moment he tilted back his head to glower at Elladan he managed to look like he was scolding him over afternoon tea. “He’s quite a bit farther away than Elrohir you know.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps your Sentinel is an Elf in Rivendell, and we’re only a few hours away from there.”

“No, unless your Elrohir is strange for an Elf I think my Sentinel is something different.”

Elladan forced himself to keep his smile genial rather than excited at the slight confirmation that he might be right. “Elrohir is powerful, but his gifts are common amongst warrior Elves. Perhaps you might close your eyes and tell me what you feel.” Bilbo raised an eyebrow and Elladan rolled his eyes. “I won’t let you fall.”

Bilbo narrowed his eyes, which was all the warning that Elladan needed that Bilbo would be severely displeased if he did. Then Bilbo closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, casting out with his soul in a way that no weak Guide could manage. A few of the other Elves in the party nearly slipped from their saddles in shock at the gentle flow of Bilbo’s mind brushing past them while he stretched out to the east. Elrohir galloped back towards the party and glared at his brother for allowing Bilbo to do anything with his gifts when they weren’t in the safety of Rivendell. The common Orc wouldn’t be able to feel Bilbo’s touch, but the Sentinel hunting him might. 

Elladan waived off his brother’s concern and wrapped his own mind around Bilbo to keep him from picking up on the surprise and disquiet amongst the Elves. “What do you feel?”

“Tired. Sore. A little nauseous from all the riding and not enough breakfasts.”

“Bilbo,” Elladan scolded with a smile.

“Alright, alright. He feels… exhausted. Stretched. Like he’s been working too hard and even his soul is tired.”

Elladan looked up at Elrohir, who was busy pretending like he wasn’t listening in to the conversation. Two of the Trolls had died from poisoning, Elrohir had been able to smell it on their skin. But the third, the poison didn’t kill the third. There were scant few Sentinels in the world who had the strength to snuff out a life with nothing but their will (it required more power than even Elrohir possessed). Bilbo hadn’t killed that Troll, but his Sentinel had. He must have felt Bilbo cry out just the same way Bilbo had felt his Sentinel call to him. The Sentinel was stretched from reaching halfway across Middle-earth to kill a Troll and save Bilbo’s life. Elladan was grateful that the Troll was nearly dead from the poison anyway, because if he hadn’t been, then the stretching probably would’ve killed the Sentinel stone dead for trying. 

“What else? You said that Elrohir felt different than your Hobbit Sentinels. How does your Sentinel feel?” 

Bilbo cocked his head to the side like he was straining to hear something over the pounding of hooves. Elladan was also fairly certain that the Hobbit sniffed the air like he could catch his Sentinel’s scent like freshly baked bread calling you home. “Solid. Steady. Like he would catch me if I fell.”

Elladan nodded along, ready to point out that though he probably would’ve used incurably stubborn himself, these were words used to describe Dwarves. But Bilbo wasn’t done quite yet. “He burns though, deep inside. Like when you’ve missed every meal but dinner.” Bilbo slowly opened his eyes like he couldn’t quite bear to leave his Sentinel behind, but it had to be done before he sunk straight into the Sentinel’s soul and never left. “That’s me, isn’t it? That burning is the place where I’m supposed to be.” 

Elladan ran his fingers through Bilbo’s tangle of soft curls. “I believe it is.”

“You believe?”

“Elves do not burn. We feel cracked, like a plant that has gone unwatered.”

“And Men?”

“Men feel hollow, like their insides have been scraped out by gritty wind.”

“And, D-Dwarves?” 

“They say that at the heart of every Dwarf is a forge, and when a Dwarven Sentinel exists without their Guide, they burn for them. And when they find their Guide, they love them with all the heat and fire of that forge.”

“He’s a Dwarf then?” Bilbo asked. He knew the answer, but it seemed impolite to ignore Elladan in favor of mentally compiling what little he knew about Dwarves to try and create a mental picture of his Sentinel.”

“Tell me, where is he?”

Without any thought at all, Bilbo pointed to the east and ever so slightly to the north. Bilbo looked startled that the reaction had been instantaneous. Elladan grinned, fiercely pleased at the response. “In that direction lies Erebor, the home of the Dwarf lords.”


	5. Chapter 5

Elrond had planned to invite the Hobbits to spend a week in the sanctuary of Rivendell. In that time he would let the situation in Erebor cool to something less fraught, and in his soothing halls he would teach Bilbo Baggins how to shield himself in the way the Shire had naturally done for him. He would also take pains to convince Bilbo’s cousins that Erebor would be a dangerous and hostile place, even for Bilbo who was the Guide to a Dwarf. He could not imagine how perilous it would be for Hobbits who had no call to be there. And somehow, somehow he would convince his sons to stay behind in Rivendell. His current plan involved telling them it would be best for Bilbo that they appear as non-threatening as possible, though he doubted his sons would accept that rationale. But no matter their refusal, when he and Bilbo departed, they would go alone. Alone, with a company of Elven warriors who were best at feigning that they were really there to be healers and not there to help break the Hobbit out of Erebor in case everything went wrong. 

However, when Bilbo rode up to Rivendell’s entrance all but glowing with newfound understanding of his abilities, Elrond didn’t have the heart to make him wait. Nor did he think that making Thorin wait would do the Dwarf any good. 

Instead, he invited the Hobbits into his hall, fed them their standard seven meals in one sitting, and around desert had Figwit, his messenger, bring in their largest map of Middle-earth. Elrond stood and gestured to the Shire, then slowly traced his fingers across the fabric to Rivendell. “Far to the east, over ranges and rivers, lies a single, solitary peak. It is the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, home to the greatest of the Dwarf lords.”

Drogo paused to stare with his fork halfway to his mouth, while Adalgrim glanced up for a moment before turning back to his pie. Bilbo though, he set aside his food and wandered over to the map like it was calling to him. With steady eyes, the Hobbit took in the sharp shadows that indicated the height of the Misty Mountains, and the dense expanse of green that was Mirkwood. 

“Precisely seven days ago, they heard a noise like a hurricane coming down from the north. The pines on the mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wing. It was a fire-drake from the north, called Smaug. He flew past the front gates of Erebor, scorching the stone with his flame, then turned his wrath on the city of Dale.” Elrond watched Bilbo as the Hobbit traced the dragon’s path with shaking fingers. “He circled back, intending to unleash another great stream of flame, but then, there was Thorin, called Oakenshield, the Prince Under the Mountain. 

“Smaug’s wrath awoke the Sentinel in him, and with his newly born gifts he spotted a hole in the dragon’s armor. He drew his bow and waited until Smaug opened his mighty jaws to burn him whole, and flew into range. The Prince fired, and with one arrow, Thorin Oakenshield slew the dragon.” 

Adalgrim gaped at the story while Drogo set aside his finished plate like he wasn’t at all perturbed. Bilbo hmmed in interest, then asked, “Do you think the attack is what upset my Sentinel enough to call for me?” 

Elladan and Elrohir held the map suspended between them, but at Bilbo’s question they leaned behind the fabric and shared stared of befuddlement. Elrond was left all on his own to eek out a smile that didn’t tell Bilbo he’d missed something important. 

He needn’t have worried, because Bilbo paid the Elves not one speck of attention. Instead he puffed out a long, “Well,” buried his hands in his pockets, and gave a sharp nod. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you’d loan me a smaller version of this map so we might find our way to Erebor.”

“That won’t be necessary Master Baggins.”

Bilbo paused, like he was trying to decide whether that comment was meant to sound quite so disheartening as it had. “In the morning, I will escort you to Erebor myself.”

“Really?” Bilbo brightened. 

“It would be my honor, Master Baggins. I have not seen a hobbit-dwarf pairing in all my long years, and I would be privileged to be a part of it in some manner. However, before you decide to embark, there are some things you must be made aware of.

“Dwarves, on the best of days, are not particularly fond of other species. Under normal circumstances they might extend you some leniency because of your size, but you are not a warrior, and you bear nearly elven ears and no beard. They will hold that against you.”

Bilbo puffed up. “If my Sentinel cannot see past my ears, then he is not worthy of the name.”

Elrond chuckled, and his boys ducked out from behind the map in surprise at the noise. “I do not believe that your Sentinel will struggle with such a thing, Master Baggins, but your Sentinel is not the only resident of Erebor.”

Without having to gesture or glance, Figwit appeared beside Elrond and cracked open the thick pages of a heavy book. There was the image a Dwarf, a zig-zag of jewels across his long beard and a bulky crown atop his head. “Thrór, son of Dáin, son of Náin, King Under the Mountain, is mad.

All three Hobbits started at Elrond, torn between upset that such a distinguished Elf would use such an ugly word, and not quite understanding why madness was a problem. 

With a flick of a smile, Elrond explained. “Dwarven madness is not like Hobbit madness. Gandalf has told me a tale or two about any Hobbit who deems to break bread with him being deemed ‘mad,’ but this is not the same.” 

Figwit flipped to the front page of the book and showed Bilbo a long family tree. “The first Dwarf made was called Durin, and his unbroken line still sits in power at Erebor.” Bilbo hovered his fingers over the page, tracing the path down from Durin to that Throin fellow that Elrond had been talking about. Bilbo made note that Thorin had nephews, but no sons of his own. “For thousands of years the line of Durin has been plagued with gold madness. Since the ailment descended upon the line there has been no Sentinel in the ruling house of Durin.”

Bilbo, ever curious, asked how this Thorin fellow managed to be a Sentinel then. Elrond gave him a look like the Elf could see past Bilbo’s skin and down to his very bones. “I suspect that the bond Thorin has with his guide has protected him from the love of gold that so afflicts his kin.”

“Oh?” Bilbo turned back to the book. “But you don’t have a Guide written down for him. He’s unmarried and unbounded according to this.” 

Elladan snickered, and Bilbo gave him the long sort of look that meant he was trying to decide if he was being laughed at. Elrohir interrupted. “Father likes his theories about Thorin’s guide, but he has no proof for it yet.” Bilbo gave the boys the same sort of glower he gave Hobbitlings who tried to talk him into giving them cookies before dinner. 

Adalgrim pressed closed to Bilbo’s side, chomping on a scone and dripping crumbs down his cousin’s sleeve. “So what does this gold sickness do? Drive them to dance around in nothing but their pants and fancy jewels?”

Elrond paused before he decided that a dry, “No,” was the only way to respond. “The gold sickness means that the kings mine Erebor for precious every last precious stone and mineral they can find, shaping them to coins and cutting them to forms only to bury them within the vault, where they are never spent, and never used, only admired by the house of During and those they deem worthy.”

The Hobbits all furrowed their brows in befuddlement. “The miners take only a fraction of what they recover because all surplus goes to the king. However, the earth under the mountain is rich enough that even with the demands placed on them, the citizens take home enough money that they do not starve. That, plus their belief in the right of the line of Durin to rule, is enough to keep them content.”

Elrohir snorted. “It is partly that they believe in Durin’s right that keeps them oppressed, but mostly it is because Thrór is a cruel king. Though I admit, things were much worse before Thorin came of age. For the most part Thrór now spends his time being fawned over by his sycophantic lords and counting his money while Thorin runs the kingdom.”

Bilbo looked to the chart in confusion. “What about this Thráin? What does the king’s son do?”

Elrond grimaced. “Thráin is broken, body and soul. He led the Dwarves of Erebor to reclaim their ancient homeland, and nearly killed them all in the attempt. Thorin got them out alive, but the fight broke his father. Thráin is kept alive by the will of his children, though has not the strength to feel passion for gold, let alone the running of his kingdom.”

The three Hobbits clumped together under this onslaught of unpleasant information, but Elrond wasn’t done yet. “Under normal circumstances Erebor would not be quite so perilous because I would take to you Thorin and explain to him that you are seeking your sentinel. Thorin is stubborn, but levelheaded, and he would help. He had always been better to outsiders and Elvenkind than the rest of his kin.” Elrond gave a very pointed look at Bilbo. “I can only assume because it is a persuasion that his Guide shares.” 

Bilbo gave Elrond a pleasant nod. “That’s lovely. When you finally figure out who this Guide is I think I would like to meet them. Whoever they are, they sound like an extraordinarily good influence.” The Hobbits shared innocent smiles while they suggested that perhaps the Thain should send Thorin a letter to open up trade, and at least Bilbo could count on one friend amongst the folk of Erebor. 

“However,” Elrond interrupted, “Thorin has not been seen since Smaug’s attack.”

“Because you think he came into his gifts.” Bilbo nodded along like Elrond needed all the support he could get in the face of his teasing children. 

Elrond did not sigh, because Elves who had been born in the First Age of this world never did something like sigh. But in that moment he regretted the youth that would’ve permitted him such a response. “Without Thorin at his best I cannot protect you from the wrath of Thrór. He is tempestuous and xenophobic and irrational at the best of times, and with his heir ill and himself embarrassed that he had nothing to do with the destruction of the dragon at his gates, he will be a terror. 

“And if Thrór is not enough, Thranduil, the Elven lord of the Greenwood, has the same disdain for Dwarves that Thrór has for everyone.” Elrond paused, spending a moment puzzling out how to tell Bilbo that Thranduil would consider forfeit the life of the Guide of Thorin Oakenshield without actually telling Bilbo that would be his. 

“If you choose to go with me Master Baggins, we will need to be sneaky about your purpose. Have you any healing ability?”

“Not in the slightest.” Bilbo gave a rapid shake of his head. Elrond added that to his mental list of basic Guide skills to teach Bilbo in what little time they had before they reached Erebor. “I’m afraid the only thing I’m quite good at is cooking. Though, I’ve got some skill at conkers, I’m a fair hand at gardening, and I am truly excellent at reading.”

“And he’s an excellent storyteller,” Adalgrim added.

Drogo nodded. “And he’s rather good at mediating family disputes.” 

Bilbo shrugged in quiet assent to both comments. “But really, that’s the lot of it.”

Elrond pursed his lips. “Gardening is what we shall go with then. If asked by any Elf or Dwarf you will tell them that the Shire heard about the attack from Smaug and you thought that the dragon fire must have done terrible damage. So the Shire sent a consulting gardener to help Erebor and the surrounding lands be restored. Dwarves know next to nothing about gardening and Thranduil’s forest has no cultivated gardens to speak of. With that in mind, do you think you can manage it?”

Bilbo nodded. “If anything else, I’ll do what Halfred does when he doesn’t want to answer questions about his vegetables, just pick up a handful of dirt and trail off into muttering about the color of the soil.”

Adalgrim started to bounce beside Bilbo. “And what will we be, Mister Elrond?” 

Drogo elbowed him. “I’m certain that it would be easiest for Lord Elrond if we all pretended to be gardeners.”

“I don’t know a thing about gardening!” Adalgrim complained.

“Then we’ll tell people we brought you along to carry things.” Drogo smirked. 

Elrond interrupted with a foreboding, “Gentlemen.”

Drogo and Adalgrim turned to him with bright smiles that immediately fade to stubborn glowers. “We are going to Erebor, Lord Elrond. We can’t let Bilbo go alone.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Drogo added.

“It would be boring,” Adalgrim corrected.

“He is our cousin.”

“He’s our friend.”

“Bilbo ought to have family there when he gets bonded.”

“He ought to have family he likes there when he gets bonded.”

Elrond held up his hands and conceded to the onslaught of Hobbit logic. “However, if you choose to go with us, never will either of you be without one of my sons. There will be no adventuring without one of them and their weapons to protect you. You must also be prepared to leave at any moment should things turn sour.”

“Oh I can guarantee,” Adalgrim grinned. “If there’s one thing Tooks know how to do, it’s duck when things go wrong.”


	6. Chapter 6

The company of Elves and their three Hobbits left before dawn broke the next morning, intending to push their horses to the breaking point and cross the Misty Mountains in one, long day. According to Elrond and the boys it was less of a risk to run the high pass in the light than it was to ride either north or south and skirt the mountain range the whole trip. The three Elves avoided the question when the Hobbits tried to ask what was so risky about the mountains, but Bilbo could feel their mixture of fear and disgust at the thought of being too close when darkness fell. 

Bilbo may not have been trained in Elven Guide tactics, but he was clever enough to guess that the Orcs who’d attacked them were not the only ones running around. And now that Elladan had planted the thought, Bilbo suspected that part of their concern was that somewhere in these mountains there was an Orcish Sentinel who wanted to kill him. Or worse. 

And never let it be said that Bilbo Baggins had ever before contemplated that there could be a fate worse than death. 

After dinner the Elven males had put the three Hobbits to bed, then woken them up bright and early the next morning for a bath and a change of clothes. The water was scented with plants commonly found in the Misty Mountains and the clothes were of Elvish make. The boys had spent ten seconds avoiding telling the Hobbits why they were determined to change their garb, but Elrond had felt honesty was in order. The clothes and the bath were to mask their Hobbit scent, doing everything they could to keep the Orcish Sentinel who dwelt in the Misty Mountains from having a scent to hunt. 

That had spurred an argument about whether or not they should be out and about at all, but it was difficult to say they should avoid the mountains when the Hobbits were already on horseback with Elves behind them. 

Elladan held Bilbo tight to his chest, one hand on the reigns and another hand wrapped around the skin of Bilbo’s wrist. The Elves had done what they could to conceal the Hobbits from any Orcish senses, but there was little to be done for the peace and contentment that Bilbo projected. (Elladan said touching Bilbo’s mind was like being wrapped up in a downy blanket, drinking a mug of cocoa, sitting before a roaring fire.) With a firm grip on Bilbo, Elladan was able to cast his mind around the Hobbit’s projecting emotions and keep them under wraps. 

In the dark, pre-dawn miles from Rivendell to the Misty Mountains proper, Elladan had murmured to Bilbo all his tips and tricks for shielding. “Imagine your mind is your home, and you’re closing your front door.” “Imagine your mind is like a like an oven, and you cannot let the heat escape or things won’t cook.” And Bilbo’s personal favorite: “Imagine you’re under siege.” (About two seconds after Elladan used that example the Hobbits started to giggle that Elladan though a war metaphor was the best way to relate to Bilbo.”

Eventually Drogo grew tired of the game and declared, “Imagine Lobelia wants to know what you’re thinking.” The shields around Bilbo’s mind slammed into place so fast that Elladan nearly tumbled out of the saddle. 

Unfortunately that was the last the last spot of humor they had for the day. The Elven riders wore overlarge cloaks to wrap around their Hobbit companions and keep them as far from sight as possible. In keeping with their pretense that there were no Hobbits as part of the company, no word of Westron was spoken once they crossed into the mountains, only Elvish. Though occasionally Elladan did lean forward and whisper, “Lobelia” in Bilbo’s ear to get him to tighten his mental shields. 

And so they went, quiet and tense, but pressing forward with all the wind-like speed that Elven horses were known for. 

After they passed the summit and the flat lands beyond were in sight, the Elves began to unclench. There was a breath or two of teasing conversation, and Elladan peeled back the cloak to give Bilbo a little more breathing room. They passed the outside rim of the mountain and began their descent when Bilbo first heard the echo of a scream. The Elves didn’t wait for a second. 

Bilbo hadn’t thought the Elven horses could go faster, but they did. Elrond leapt to the front of the party, with Elladan and Bilbo directly behind, and Elrohir behind them. Bilbo tried to twist around in the saddle to be sure that his cousins were well, but Elladan clamped his hand around Bilbo’s shoulders and hissed, “Stay down!” 

The bundle of Elves tumbled out of the last remnant of the mountain pass just as the first arrow went zipping past their heads. Centuries, at least, of experience kicked in and the Elves started to weave along the open ground, cutting paths that would be hard to hit. The pulsating Orcish screams were met with a swell of Warg snarls and howls hard on their trail. Elladan pulled out to the front of the group, putting as much space between Bilbo and the Orcs as he could. Elrond and Elrohir raised their swords in a salute, then dropped behind to join the fight. “What are they doing?” Bilbo shouted, Elladan’s grip keeping him from turning to be sure they were well. 

“Buying us time,” Elladan murmured between clenched teeth.

“Time for what?”

“To reach Mirkwood.” Across a river bisecting the empty space was a horizon of inky black trees. “The Orcs won’t dare follow us there.”

“But what about the others?”

Elladan grimaced. “They will come as they can.”

Bilbo may not have known much about the doings of war, but he knew that tone meant nothing good. Elladan couldn’t fight with Bilbo in his lap, leaving him with no option but to get the Hobbit to safety before they were attacked. Elladan slowed as they crossed the ford, the river’s water coming up no higher than his horse’s ankles. Bilbo seized his chance the moment they reached dry land, and wrenched his weight out of Elladan’s arms and off the saddle. Bilbo hit the ground in a roll and started running for the woods before him. Elladan followed Bilbo for several steps, trying to scoop the Hobbit back up. “Go help them!” Bilbo shouted, tossing his hands back at the battle going on behind them. “I’ll be fine! They need you.”

A horrible moment of indecision flashed across Elladan’s face, then he drew his sword and raised it in the same sort of salute his father and brother had given him. “Get to the tree line as quick as you can, we’ll keep them from crossing the river.” 

Bilbo watched Elladan ride away, then slowed to a trot, glancing over his shoulder while he waited for his cousins and their riders to break free the same way he and Elladan had. Soon enough he realized that nothing good could come from him sitting there in the open, and buried in battle like the other Elves were, it was unlikely that they’d be free of the Orcs until every last one was dead. Bilbo turned on his heel and ran for the forest, ignoring the Tookish part of his blood that called him a coward for leaving them all behind. 

To the sounds of shrieks and yowls, Bilbo crossed the forest line and plowed straight into a tree. 

Or, not so much a tree as an Elf who felt sturdy enough to be mistaken for one of his leafy brethren. (Though, the pale skin and long blond hair didn’t make him look much like a plant.)

Bilbo scrambled back to his feet and shouted, “You’ve got to help them! The Orcs attacked us on the way down from the mountains and my friends are still out there!” 

The Elf titled his head and stared at Bilbo with the sort of fascination that made him nervous. But the Elf flicked two fingers and a whole troop unseen warriors slipped out of the woods and went running to Elrond’s aid. Bilbo put aside the staring and thanked the willowy Elf for his help. Bilbo backed to the side, trying to keep an eye on the Elf and on the battle taking place behind him. The Rivendell Elves had formed a tight circle, their wounded and the Hobbits tucked away in the middle while the rest stood their ground against the massive Orcs and their mounts. The Mirkwood Elves burst onto the fight like a blessing, and starting cutting a path through to give the others a way to retreat. 

The blond Elf seemed to care not a jot for his people, instead staring at Bilbo in a way that made him want to face the Orcs instead. “Don’t, uh, don’t you want to go help them?”

The Elf did not answer. Instead he sniffed the air around Bilbo. Considering that Bilbo smelled like plants and Elf, he was rather insulted that the fellow felt the need to sniff at all. Bilbo was going to cross his arms and glower at the Elf for being rude. However, the fellow chose that moment to step forward with the same look in his eye that Adalgrim got when grandmother finally caved and made him that strange nut/berry pie he was so fond of. Bilbo stumbled away, terrified that he’d just escaped one lurking Sentinel for another. 

The Elf stretched out a hand to grasp for Bilbo, and an arrow sliced in between them. 

Bilbo yelped and went to dive behind the nearest tree, then realized that the arrow had come from Elrohir. He galloped straight for Bilbo, while the Mirkwood Elves trailing along behind him looked more than a little confused about what they ought to do next. Their loyalty was to their fellow Mirkwood Elves, but Elrohir was not to be trifled with, no matter who you served. Whatever Elrohir might’ve said or done to scold the Elf, the arrow seemed to be enough. He stumbled back with a look of horror on his face. 

Elrohir dismounted in one smooth motion and put himself in between the foreign Elf and Bilbo. “He is not for you, Legolas.”

“I know.” Legolas looked around Elrohir to catch Bilbo’s eye. “And I am sorry. I am unbounded and a Guide such as you is enough to hamper my judgment.” Elrohir didn’t look like he particularly believed that, but Bilbo supposed that a Sentinel who’d been born mere minutes before his Guide wasn’t the one to understand what it felt like to go without. And what going without might drive you to do.

“It’s alright,” Bilbo murmured. “No harm done.”

Legolas gave him grateful nod, then turned his attention back to Elrohir. “You are making for the Lonely Mountain?”

“Indeed Prince Legolas, we are,” Elrond interrupted from atop his steed, with not a hair out of place.

Legolas tilted his head in acknowledgement to the Elven Lord. “Then you must press on. Thrór hides Thorin’s condition, but any Sentinel worth the name can feel his agony and it is making everyone uncomfortable. Whether because they can feel one of our fellows in distress, or they are irritated that a Dwarf is the one they can feel.” Legolas’s eyes flicked to Bilbo. “My father included.”

Elrond’s eyebrows soared up on his forehead and his mount shuffled steps with the concern it could feel from its rider. “Is he so far gone?”

“Until Thorin Oakenshield shot down Smaug my father was the undisputed Alpha of the East, not even the Kings of Gondor could challenge him despite the long line of Sentinels in their blood. Now he has been upset by an upstart whose species he believes should have no such skill.” Legolas laid out the facts with a tone that implied Elrond was a fool for asking.

“And Dale?” Elrohir asked.

“Bard is no fool and not a prideful man. He can connect clues just the same as the rest of us and does not mind what Thorin will step into when he awakes. I do not know about his people, but I would not be surprised if the clever among them had not surmised the same and spread the word.”

For the most part, Bilbo ignored the conversation around him in favor of checking his cousins to be sure that they had survived the fight whole and healthy. Drogo finally eeked open an eye at Bilbo’s questioning, while Adalgrim looked ready to lose whatever remained of his breakfast. 

Elrond gave a sharp nod to Legolas and reached down to pluck Bilbo up to join him in the saddle. Bilbo reminded himself about Lobelia and closed down his shields before gave a polite nod to the Elf for offering them aid that saved all their lives. The whole of Elrond’s company exchanged thankful glances with their fellow Elves, while Elladan added, “More Orcs will be coming this way, and they might be bold enough to actually try for the woods.”

Legolas probably could have guessed that for himself, but he tipped his head in acknowledgement anyway. “Perhaps those Orcs will be enough to keep my father from recognizing what you carry.”

Elladan gave an impish sort of grin. “I doubt that anything short of the end of the world would distract him from this.”

Legolas cast a long look over to Bilbo, and a shudder ran through him as he pulled his eyes away. “No,” he murmured. “I suppose it would have to be.”


	7. Chapter 7

The Lonely Mountain was… a mountain. In the singular. Just a mountain alone on a plain. There was a rather plush-looking city just outside its gates, but it was still just a mountain. For all the stories that he had been told over the last few days Bilbo had expected something a bit grander.

 

When Bilbo had shared that observation with Elladan, the Elf devolved into a fit of giggles. He warned Bilbo that if he valued his head he would avoid saying such a thing in front of any of the Dwarves. It proved to be wise counsel since within a day they began to see groups of Dwarves popping up between them and the mountain. Some of the Dwarves were on patrol, and every time they caught sight of the Elves they sent a messenger back to Erebor to report on their party’s progress. But many of the travelling Dwarves were foreigners making slow, dignified progress towards the mountain.

 

Bilbo had assumed they were on their way to pay homage to Thorin the Dragonslayer, but Elrond got a pinched look at that hypothesis, like he suspected something less innocuous.

 

That night Elladan took Bilbo by the hand and led the Hobbit outside the bustling circle of the camp. Elrohir came along and settled down cross-legged, facing the closest Dwarven camp. Elladan pulled Bilbo down beside him, the three of them forming a triangle focused on Elrohir. The elder twin closed his eyes and took his brother’s hand. He released a long sigh, and every Elf took it as a sign to stop moving.

 

Elladan leaned forward and whispered in his brother’s ear words that Bilbo could not follow, but he caught the sentiment. He created the same sort of peace Bilbo had felt when Halfred Greenhand led his mother out of a terrible headache. In the quiet places of his mind, Bilbo could feel Elrohir’s senses unfurling, rolling towards the Dwarven encampment like a pin over dough.

 

Bilbo’s ears began to hum like they did after too long a party, and he realized it wasn’t every sense Elrohir was using, it was his hearing. The Elf was stretching himself over the miles of open space to eavesdrop on a conversation had amongst Dwarves miles and miles away. The trick would be parsing their words from the steady breeze that burst over the hills, the buzz of the city of Men beyond, and the thrum of hammer to anvil in the mountain. That was Elladan’s role in this, helping guide Elrohir to the sounds that mattered without losing himself in the ones that didn’t. As Halfred had taught him, Bilbo reached out and stroked the palm of his soul along the stiff line of Elladan’s back, slicking away the stress like water.

 

Elrohir stiffened, and Bilbo froze in case he had crossed an unwritten line of Elven decorum. But instead, Elrohir murmured, “They are here for Thorin. They speak in Khuzdul, but there is… a hunger to their voices.”

 

“Hunger?” Elladan prodded.

 

“Like how the Men speak of Arwen when they think we can’t hear them.”

 

Bilbo’s eyes flicked over to Elladan in confusion. “Our beautiful, unbounded Guide, little sister,” Elladan explained without looking away from his brother.

 

Bilbo’s stomach churned at the thought of what twisted kind of hunger the Men might have for such a lady. And why they would have such a hunger for Thorin? He wasn’t a maiden or a Guide, why would they… then the truth slammed into Bilbo.

 

The Dwarves wanted to force a bond. They wanted to take an aching Sentinel and, in his distress, compel him to accept a Guide that was not his own. They would secure their future at the expense of the life and happiness of countless others, including one of Bilbo’s fellow Guides who was probably in that mountain pining for Thorin the way Bilbo was out here pining for his own Sentinel. Bilbo wallowed in his white hot fury for such an abomination, at least, he did until someone started screaming.

 

Across the miles and miles of flatland, the architect of such a plan dropped to his knees with a shriek. His Dwarves went for their weapons, forming a tight blockade to fight an enemy that wasn’t there. One of his Guides pressed two shaking finger’s to the Dwarf’s temple, and dropped to the ground in a swoon. (He’d packed along one Guide for fights, one Guide for appearances, and three Guides to seduce Thorin into an alliance. The Guide for appearances was the only one still fond enough of the fellow to actually try and help him.)

 

A hand clamped around Bilbo’s wrist, wrenching him out of his disgust. Eyes that Bilbo didn’t remember closing popped open to find Elladan staring at him with something close to awe. Bilbo pushed aside the Hobbit impulse to explain himself. “They’re here for Thorin. They don’t want him, or even like him, but that horrible Sentinel thinks that if he can trick Thorin into bonding with one of his harem, then that Guide will be able to force Erebor into giving up its gold.”

 

“If they think Thrór values the life of his grandson over his hoard then they are fools. Is that all that made you respond quite so virulently?” Elladan asked.

 

Bilbo didn’t think there needed to be anything more than using a searching Sentinel in such a foul way, and to be honest, he had no words to describe why the thought of Thorin being forced to bond with a Guide against his will infuriated him so. “It’s wrong! Dwarves ought to be with their One, not with a liar.”

 

“A One is preferred but not crucial, you know. What’s truly necessary is the bonding.”

 

Bilbo puffed up. “I don’t care about whether or not it’s necessary. No Sentinel or Guide should be stuck with someone who only wants them for the money.”

 

Elladan’s lips curved in that way that meant he was about to say something deliberately designed to provoke Bilbo, but Elrohir interrupted. “They are packing up and heading for the mountain.”

 

“They won’t reach it before dawn,” Elladan scoffed.

 

“No, but it will lend credence to their argument that they were attacked by ‘Elven magic.’”

 

Elladan grumbled something undoubtedly foul in his native tongue. “Is that really what they’re spouting?”

 

“Did you expect them to think it Hobbit magic instead?”

 

Elladan pursed his lips in a way that declared he absolutely did not find his brother funny. Elrond stepped up behind his sons, heading off the argument that would likely descend. “They are Ironfists,” Elrond murmured, and Bilbo didn’t need to speak Elvish to understand Elladan’s cursing.

 

“What are Ironfists?”

 

“The worst of the Dwarven clans.” Elrohir explained, since his brother was too distracted to answer. “Legend says that the progenitor of their line was so greedy that he clung so tightly to his gold that the flesh and bone became iron around it so that he would never have to give it up. His people hold to that philosophy. They are aggressive and vicious even amongst themselves, and they have a longstanding feud with the line of Durin for all that they believe should’ve been theirs, but the Durin Dwarves took.”

 

“If they hate the Durin Dwarves why are they trying to force Thorin into a bond!” Bilbo demanded. His cousins stepped up beside his shoulders, crossing their arms and trying to look as intimidating as possible. This Thorin’s Guide was going to be Bilbo’s friend among the Dwarves, which meant that Thorin was going to be his friend, which meant he was already as good as family.

 

“Claiming the Prince Under the Mountain would be the ultimate prize. A battle won without a drop of blood.” Elladan glanced at his father like he thought the Elven Lord should have found a more delicate way to put it. Despite the Hobbit belief that Thorin ought to be protected because of the kind of friend he might be in the future, Bilbo was projecting something else. His Hobbit-self truly believed that Thorin was nothing more than a fellow Gifted who was being taken advantage of, but his Guide-self knew better.

 

Bilbo’s strength was slipping out of control. Without forethought he had plucked the intention out of the mind of the Ironfist representative and punished the man for having designs on his Sentinel. Had Bilbo been better trained, the Elves would’ve been amused at the Hobbit being such a territorial little thing. But as it was, Bilbo was lashing out with nothing more than instinct. If he went on like this he’d shatter something in his mind, and given Bilbo’s own inherent strength, the Lady Galadriel was probably the only Guide in the whole of Middle-earth who would be able to pull him out.

 

While his father and brother debated over the best way to handle a sudden onset of Ironfist Dwarves and what in the world they were doing there, Elrohir pulled himself back from eavesdropping. “Guards are approaching.”

 

“From the Ironfists?” Elladan’s hand went to his sword.

 

“From Erebor.”

 

“But we’re a day’s travel away from the mountain.”

 

Elrohir slid to his feet and raised an eyebrow at his brother. “Then I would image there is something else that has drawn them out.”

 

Elrond turned his eyes towards the mountain and picked up the small company of riders steadily pushing their way on, despite the dark. “They will be upon us in the hour.”

 

“If we stay,” Elladan pointed out.

 

“Why wouldn’t we stay?” Adalgrim asked, more than willing to ask the stupid question on the off chance that someone would actually tell them what was going in more than the vaguest of terms. “Do you think they’re coming to attack us?”

 

“No Mister Took,” Elrond said, giving Elladan a look that told him the conversation was closed. “They are prepared to do battle with any Orcs that should some cross their way, but they do not have the armor that Dwarves use when they expect to come into conflict with Elves.”

 

“What will we do then?” Drogo asked.

 

“We will stoke the fire so that they can find their way, and we will share our evening meal with them when the arrive.”

 

“The Ironfists—” Elladan argued, but his brother put a calming hand on his shoulder.

 

“We have more right to be here than the Ironfists. And Thorin would thank us to keep them from coming to his kingdom when he is unable to make his grandfather see reason. And,” his eyes flicked to Bilbo, “I suspect he would approve of our keeping away grasping Guides who would only interfere with the process.”

 

Drogo and Adalgrim took it upon themselves to take the Elven supplies and craft a proper Hobbit meal out of them, leaving the rest of their band to keep and eye on the Ironfists (who couldn’t seem to get their camp together with any kind of efficiency), and to watch the Hobbits bustle about with smiles of a genuine pleasure.

 

Bilbo however, he paced.

 

There was something coming with that band of Dwarves. He hoped that it was his Sentinel sensing him and coming to collect Bilbo to bring him home. But for all his optimism, Bilbo was still a bit of a realist. His Sentinel wasn’t in that group, but it was something close.

 

At the end of the hour, Bilbo stood just outside the ring of firelight so he could properly see the four approaching ponies. The riders were small like Hobbits, Bilbo could tell that much, and there was the occasional glint of moonlight off a metal weapon slung across their backs, but nothing more.

 

Elrond joined Bilbo, far more serene than his Hobbit counterpart. “Do they make you uncomfortable?”

 

“The Dwarves? Not in the slightest. I just, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something important about them.”

 

“Then do not shake the feeling Master Baggins, trust it.”

 

“Halfred always used to say that when you wanted to know what to do, you should bury your toes in the dirt and tilt your face up to the sun. If that’s good enough to teach plants how to grow, it’s good enough for Hobbits.”

 

The sun had long since set, and Elrond looked up to the blanket of stars glimmering above them. “My people were created when the stars were the brightest light of the world. History says that they were the first thing we saw when we awoke, and we loved them. Still, we sing songs of the glory of the stars.” Bilbo let Elrond have his moment of silence to gather his words before he continued. “I was born long after the sun rose in the sky and the stars became nothing more than an accent to the moon’s own reflected light. Though I am fond of the songs about the stars, I find I cannot regret only knowing the sun.” Bilbo released a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, captivated as he was by the low rhythm of Elrond’s words. “I think that one could have a worse guide than the sun.”

 

Bilbo could not see himself as the Dwarves did in that moment, backlit by the bright light of the fire, the silver of the stars above touching his hair and making him glimmer. The lead Dwarf slipped from his pony, Bilbo too busy listening to Elrond to notice their approach. He took in the Elf-Lord’s tale, and watched the small creature at his side nearly glow in awe, a miniature sun. A light to guide back a lost Sentinel.

 

The Dwarves with him breathed out a communal sigh of relief, and one in particular twisted to the side to wipe away a few stray tears. The others thumped him on the back, but not a soul could tease on a night like this. The lead Dwarf grinned at his companions, then burst, “I find that I could not agree with you more, Master Elf.”

 

The tiny creature started with a squeak at the booming Dwarven voice, while the Elf just looked bemused. He had known they were approaching. “A Dwarf and an Elf who appreciate the sun more than their own natural habitats. We are odd creatures then indeed, Prince Frerin.”

 

The lead Dwarf pulled back the hood slung low over his hair. He was young for a Dwarf, his beard little more than scraggle and only two braids at his temples. He had two small axes slung across his back, and instead of armor befitting a prince, he had a finely-stitched leather jerkin over his broad chest to help him blend in. With that hood up, he might’ve been mistaken for any common Dwarf, but without, his hair shone like spun gold, a trademark of the house of Durin. 

 

Bilbo, of course, didn’t know any of that. All he saw was a rather scruffy looking fellow, only slightly taller than a Hobbit, who Elrond called Prince. (But not Thorin.) Since Thorin would no doubt be his friend, that meant this brother was likely to be Bilbo’s friend as well. Bilbo put aside his blushes and dropped into a bow. “Frerin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Prince Under the Mountain, I present to you Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo, son of Mungo, a Hobbit of the Shire.”

 

Frerin swept into a deep bow. “At your service, _Dunin_ Baggins.”

 

Bilbo looked to Elrond at the strange mispronunciation of his name. “The Dwarvish word for Guide.”

 

“Ah,” Bilbo cocked his head to the side and gave Frerin a funny look. “But you’re not a Sentinel or a Guide.” The ‘how can you tell’ went unstated.

 

“Every soldier of Erebor is taught to recognize Guides so that they may be protected along with our females.” Under normal circumstances Bilbo might’ve said something about not needing to be protected, but it was a difficult argument to make when a company of Elves had been necessary to get him across the Misty Mountains.

 

“Lord Elrond, _Dunin_ Baggins, I make know to you my cousin Glóin, son of Gróin, as well as Dori, son of Tori, the chief of my guards, and Bifur, son of Bimfar.” One by one the Dwarves bowed to Bilbo, murmuring their own pledges of service. (Except for Bifur. Though Bilbo supposed whatever he said in that strange language was something close to the same.)

 

Frerin turned expectant eyes back to Bilbo, and a quick nudge from Drogo told him that his cousins had appeared at his side for introductions of their own. “These are my cousins, Drogo Baggins, son of Fosco, and Adalgrim Took, son of Hildigrim.”

 

After pleasantries and Elvish introductions, Elrond waived the Dwarves over to the fire, letting the Hobbits pass around their hastily constructed meal. Dori groaned at the taste and pulled away Drogo and Adalgrim’s attention while he begged to know what they’d done to create such a thing on the road.  

 

The moment his cousins were otherwise occupied, Frerin turned to Bilbo and nonchalantly asked, “If my history lessons are correct, then Hobbits hail from close to the Blue Mountains.”

 

“Relatively close, I suppose.”

 

“May I ask what brings three Hobbits so far from their home?”

 

Whatever preconceived notions Frerin might’ve had about Hobbits, they were not stupid creatures. Adalgrim twisted away from his conversation and flopped up against Bilbo’s shoulder. “The dragon of course!”

 

“What?” Frerin stumbled.

 

“We heard about that terrible business with the dragon. The Shire decided that we really ought to do something for you, being cousins in height as we are, and they decided to send the three of us.”

 

Frerin had a moment where Bilbo thought the Dwarf was going to glower at them for mentioning the dragon, but a bright smile broke across his face. “Are you warrior-Hobbits then? Here to defend the Dwarves of Erebor from further dragon attacks?”

 

Drogo puffed up like an affronted kitten, ready to be mortified at such an accusation, but Adalgrim laughed. With the inborn skill of all Tooks, Adalgrim tossed an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and lied straight to the Dwarf’s face. “Don’t be daft. We’re gardeners!”

 

“Gardeners?”

 

“Of course! Dragons breath fire, don’t they?”

 

Frerin looked genuinely pleased. “That they do, Mister Took.”

 

“We thought the dragon might’ve done a bit of damage to your fields and flowers, and we decided the best way we could help was to send along some folks who might help you put things back to rights.”

 

Whatever Frerin might’ve said in reply was interrupted by Elrohir. Frerin, at least, had the sense to keep his hands on his knees, but his companions flinched for their weapons. The Elves reached for their own in reply, and Elrohir rolled his eyes at all of them. “The Ironfists are on their way. They should be here within the hour.”

 

“Ironfists?” Frerin demanded, leaping to his feet.

 

Elrohir nodded at the fields to the left. “There is a small company of Ironfists making their way to the mountain. Only,” he glanced down at Bilbo, “they are concerned about the presence of Elves. They had decided to press for Erebor through the night, but they caught sight of your little band making your way towards us.”

 

Dori put himself between Frerin and the approaching Dwarves, despite their distance. “Have they identified the prince?”

 

Elrohir looked to his brother, who looked to Bilbo. The Hobbit dug his toes into the dirt and stretched out along the same path his mind had wandered when they were helping Elrohir eavesdrop. He could sense fury, but after a long moment of sifting through it like flour, he caught on the direction of that temper. These Dwarves were furious with their leader, both for dragging them all this way and for being shown up by an Elven Guide (what they supposed Bilbo must be to have hurt him).

 

Bilbo tilted his head, and murmured, “Not that I can tell. They don’t want to be here, and they don’t particularly want to talk to Elves, or to Dwarves. There’s not anything like the grasping sort of hunger that they have for your brother, so I suspect they don’t know about you.”

 

“My brother?”

 

Bilbo hummed in the affirmative. “They’re on the way to Erebor to try and bond with him. Whether they’re his Guide or not.” A thump drew Bilbo out of his contemplation. He glanced over at Frerin, who was staring at Bilbo like he was the odd one. “What?”

 

Glóin opened his mouth, but Dori elbowed him in the ribs and took over. “Did you happen to sense anything about what made them think Thorin would be open to bonding in the first place, lad? Or made them think he was a Sentinel at all?”

 

“Grandfather,” Frerin rasped.

“Now, we don’t know that—” Dori tried to placate.

 

“How else would they know!”

 

“Your brother took down a dragon with one arrow, Prince Frerin,” Elrond interrupted, his voice a soothing balm across the Dwarven tempers. “And he has not been seen since. His new status as a Sentinel is not a difficult leap to make.”

 

“Maybe not for those who have contact with Erebor. But Ironfists live in the Orocarni Mountains far to the east. It’s been scarce a week since Smaug attacked. For them to be here at all they would’ve had to travel night and day from the moment Smaug fell. For them to know of that, they either had to be in cahoots with a dragon, or someone had to tell them. Considering that they’re almost upon Erebor’s doorstep and I haven’t heard of their approach, there is only one person that could be.”

 

“But Elrond said the Ironfists hate you.”

 

“I assure you, _Dunin_ Baggins, the feeling is mutual.”

 

“So if you hate each other, why would your king invite them to try and bond with Thorin?”

 

Frerin slouched back against Dori. “I would like to say that Grandfather has grand plans for the reunification of the Dwarven clans, or that he didn’t want his grandson to go unbonded merely because of old prejudices, but it’s about the gold.”

 

Bifur launched into a long speech, complete with hand gestures, while everyone non-Dwarf just stared at him with open mouths. Dori nodded, “You’re right, Bifur. The Orocarni Mountains are full of untapped veins of precious minerals and gems. The King was probably looking for a part of the take.”

 

“But,” all three Hobbits looked horrified at the thought of a family member’s affections being bought and sold in such an abhorrent fashion. “Thorin is his grandson.”

 

Glóin snorted. “He has another. And great-grandsons beside.”

 

“I cannot imagine Thorin would tolerate an endless stream of foreign Guides suing for his affections.” Elrond prodded.

 

The Dwarves exchanged an unsubtle look, all of them uncomfortable with the implied question. Dori cleared his throat to handle thing diplomatically, but Frerin took a long look at Bilbo and interrupted. “He’s fading.”

 

“What?” Elrond demanded, the first time Bilbo had actually heard the Elf sound surprised.

 

“We took him to the Stones straightaway after Smaug, and he handled the change fairly well.” Frerin caught Bilbo’s furrow and explained. “The Stones are the most sacred place in Erebor. It is the spiritual heart of the mountain. When any Dwarf comes into their gifts, we take them to the Stones until they find their One. Usually it takes no time at all for their partner to come to them, but until that time the mountain keeps them steady.”

 

“How? It’s just rock.”

 

The Dwarves laughed. “No, no, no, _Dunin_ Baggins, the mountain is _life_. The Stones are made of slick limestone, cool to the touch, so that no step hurts a _Shomakhâl’s_ foot. The room is lined withpools of every depth, filled with water from underground springs. The water is clean and pure, some pools near freezing to deaden a _Shomakhâl’s_ senses, some near boiling to bring a _Dunin_ back to life. The stones in the ceiling glow from within, hues of blue and green to protect sensitive eyes. All the while, the Gifted are cradled in the mountain’s bosom, feeling the hum of the earth around them while it keeps them well as they wait.”

 

Frerin’s voice was deep and soothing, lulling them all into a sense of wonder. “It sounds lovely,” Bilbo murmured.

 

Frerin’s smile turned near giddy, and his eyes flashed to Elrond in a sense of shared triumph. “Thorin has been there since Smaug attacked. He slept for the first few days, naked and stretched out in a near-freezing pool to handle the aftermath of the heat from the dragon’s breath.” Bilbo flushed at the description, though the Hobbit wasn’t entirely sure why. “He was tended to by my sister and I and the closest of our friends while we waited, but no _Dunin_ came. When he woke he was pained, but he slowly began to fight his way back to a balance that might let him leave Erebor and go searching for his One.”

 

All the Hobbits leaned forward in fascination. “I thought Dwarves had to bond to stay in charge of their senses?” Drogo asked.

 

“The strongest _Shomakhâls_ can survive without a bond for a time, their own will and the strength of the mountain enough to carry them through.”

 

“But you said Thorin was unconscious.” Adalgrim demanded.

 

“He was gaining strength until three days ago, and he slipped into unconsciousness.”

 

“What happened three days ago?” Bilbo asked.

 

Frerin could see the Elves all look skyward, like they were begging for strength. He quirked an eyebrow at them, but Elladan waived off the question with a forlorn sigh. “We do not know. But when Thorin would not wake, grandfather got desperate.” Frerin paused. “More desperate.”

 

“What kind of desperate was he before?” Adalgrim asked in disbelief.

 

“He waited a few hours for Thorin’s _Dunin_ to come to the Stones, and when they didn’t, he issued an order that every unbounded _Dunin_ be brought to the Stones so that they might attempt a bond. When none of those worked, Grandfather ordered every _Dunin_ in Erebor down to the Stones.”

 

Absolute horror sunk across Bilbo’s face. Frerin raised his hands, “Thorin woke when the first came, and when we explained what the bonded _Dunin_ was doing there, he…”

 

“Lost his temper?” Bilbo tried.

 

“Flipped his shit,” Frerin answered. “Grandfather is not to be disobeyed, but Thorin is the one people listen to. The bonded _Dunins_ all came to the Stones, but they came with the comfort of knowing that Thorin had sworn if he felt the pull of a bond to one of them, he would end his own life before the bond had the chance to set.”

 

Frerin told the story with such pride, like Thorin’s oath had been the height of honor. While the Elves nodded in agreement with his decision, the three Hobbits paled. The concept of willingly choosing to end your own life for nothing more than an oath was so foreign as to be impossible.

 

The Dwarves looked amongst one another, then Glóin elbowed Nori forward. “Ah, yes. It’s a matter of honor, _Dunin_ Baggins. To violate the sanctity of the _Shomakhâl/Dunin_ bond is a high crime amongst our people, but it was not always so. There are some clans with harems for their _Shomakhâl_ , more than one _Dunin_ for each.”

 

The Hobbits hadn’t thought they could be any more horrified by this conversation than they already were.

 

Dori looked over Bilbo’s head to the Elves, putting aside his species pride to have one of them interfere. Elladan opened his mouth, then thought better of whatever he might have said, and looked to Elrond. While his family communicated through raised eyebrows, Elrohir did what needed to be done. “It would be like your mother’s Guide forcing a bond upon her despite her marriage to your father.”

 

“Ohhh,” the Hobbits said in unison, completely missing the Dwarves exchanging confused glances. To marry one who was not your One, or your partner in gifts to not be your One, was beyond their reckoning. (Much like a lethal solution was beyond the Hobbit’s.)

 

Frerin decided this was a time to exercise his rarely used self-restraint and moved on. “He has been in the same room with every _Dunin_ in Erebor, and grandfather said he would send for envoys from the other clans to see if his One is among them. Thorin tried to hold him off, but that is difficult to do when you aren’t awake to fight for yourself. Now I see it wouldn’t have done any good, because Grandfather probably sent for them on the first day, with no thought for what Thorin might want.”

 

“To whom did he extend invitations?” Elrond asked.

 

“To the colonies of Broadbeams and Firebeards who have chosen to not make their home with us, and to the Stiffbeards, Blacklocks, and Stonefoots in the east. Our allies have arrived already and the other three are on approach to the mountain to arrive tomorrow.”

 

“And you think Thorin’s Guide is among these visitors? That’s lovely.” Bilbo gave the Dwarves a pleasant smile that the poor Dwarf would be happily bonded soon.

 

The four Dwarves just stared at him, and Bifur grumbled something that Bilbo didn’t know meant, “Is he being serious?” Glóin snorted in agreement, and Dori thumped them both.

 

Frerin cast a long look over the Hobbit, taking in the golden curls, the plump stomach, and the bare toes that curled under his inspection. In Khuzdul he murmured, “My brother always did prefer them small.” He turned on his impish smile and continued in Westron. “I am certain that Thorin’s _Dunin_ will be here soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casting Notes: I see Chris Hemsworth dressed as the Huntsman in the role of Frerin. My take on both Frerin and Dis is [here](http://sunryder.tumblr.com/post/56075964416/did-you-know-trope-bingo-lets-you-fill-a-square-by), btw.


	8. Chapter 8

“Bilbo!” Frerin had grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him until he thought the Hobbit was out of the daze that had settled on him the closer they got to the mountain. “You have to listen to me.” More than one Elf had reached for their weapons, but Frerin didn’t pay them a speck of attention. “Erebor is not a safe place now, even for Dwarves. Normally I’d tell you to be as unobtrusive as possible, but you’re an unbonded _Dunin_ in the presence of Elves, so that’s not going to work. That means the best advice I can give you is to cling to that gardener story like it’s the absolute truth, and anyone who looks at you crosswise, smile at them like they’re an idiot for thinking you’re capable of anything like deceit.”

 

Adalgrim had elbowed his Elven companion as an, ‘I told you so,’ about the believability about the three of them as gardeners, but Bilbo had just nodded along. 

 

However, now that he was standing in front of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, with the strange anticipatory buzzing cut in half with how much the King seemed to hate him, Bilbo was more than a little grateful for Frerin’s grilling.

 

Elrond had raised an eyebrow when they were led to the Grand Chamber rather than the smaller halls where the King did his more casual welcoming and dealt with those who might have sensitive information. Thrór, it seemed, was more concerned with putting on a show, and an impressive show it was.

 

The Grand Chamber was not so much a chamber, as one long stretch of a walkway, lined with an empty drop down to more paths, and nothingness below. (Adalgrim had veered off to the side to glance down into the abyss, but Elrohir had snatched him by the back of the jacket and nudged him back on target.) There were massive statues lining the long walk across the room, but Bilbo couldn’t take his eyes off the throne. It sat at the center of a wide-open space, the final point of a stalactite lined with veins of a glimmering gold and shining silver. Behind the throne was one arching window that glowed blue from a stone Bilbo had never before seen. Along that back wall, to either side of the only source of light, were cutouts to a walkway were Bilbo could see Dwarves bustling about their daily lives. Or, at least, they had been bustling until they caught sight of the approaching Elves.

 

The room was designed to draw every last speck of attention to the Dwarf sitting in that throne, and for all the citizens beyond the cutouts and on the paths below to know that whoever was in front of that throne had been awed.

 

Though they could admit it was quite pretty, Hobbits cared not for such extravagant things. As was his place as the Eldest, Adalgrim waltzed up to the steps leading to the throne and introduced his two cousins and explained that they had accompanied the Elves to help with the damage of Smaug. He managed to pull out his little-used skills in dignified behavior and kept the teasing non-existent. At the close of his genial and almost absentminded introductions, Adalgrim dipped into a bow and ushered his cousins away from the dais.

 

The Hobbits had seven seconds to smile like they’d gotten away with it, when Thrór’s voice rasped across the cavern. “Tell me, Halfing, what foolishness possessed you to take an unbonded _Dunin_ with you across so great a distance?” The Dwarf sounded so demeaning that Frerin flinched. (Though none of the other Dwarves seemed particularly surprised.)

 

Even if Adalgrim hadn’t been the eldest, the Bagginses would’ve let him handle the talking anyway, because few Hobbits had a Took’s skill for spinning a yarn. Adalgrim rocked back on his heels with a bright grin, like the old king was teasing him. “Why would Bilbo be in any more danger than the rest of us?”

 

A few of the Dwarves snickered like Adalgrim was a fool, but most did no more than flash a grin, unsure about what this strange creature might know that they did not. If they had been surrounded by Sackvilles instead of foreign Dwarves, Drogo would’ve rolled his eyes at Bilbo for all their concern about appearances.

 

Thrór raised one manky eyebrow and sneered, “A _Dunin_ , even one so weak as the creature in your company, is a prime target for a wandering _Shomakhâl_.”

 

Drogo puffed up in insult, while Adalgrim actually giggled. Every Dwarf in the room stopped breathing in shock, and Bilbo could almost feel the Elves vibrate with the need to reach for their weapons. Adalgrim turned his smile to Bilbo, seemingly unaware of the tension. “What do you think Bilbo? Is your Sentinel the sort of fellow who’d demand you stay home?”

 

Moments like this were the ones when Bilbo actually appreciated the havoc that came with Took blood. “Considering that Hobbits don’t bond, I’d say my Sentinel doesn’t get a say.”

 

“Don’t bond?” the Dwarf to Thrór’s right asked. Based off the nose and how Frerin was to Thrór’s left, Bilbo assumed the questioner was Thráin.

 

“Don’t bond.” Bilbo repeated. Then he quirked his eyebrow up in the way that so irritated his cousins, the motion that implied he couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. (When he was in a mood, Drogo liked to call it Bilbo’s, ‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ eyebrow.)

 

No Dwarf wanted to be the one to ask whether Bilbo meant that Hobbits chose not to bond, or whether they were incapable. Adalgrim had implied that bonding was wholly impossible for Hobbits, without actually descending to lying about it. A few rather direct questions would have Adalgrim tangled up and stumbling over his words, and soon enough it would come spilling out that Bilbo was there for a Sentinel and they were all incompetent gardeners.

 

The silence mounted and, strangely enough, it was Drogo who fixed it. The only Hobbit amongst them who was completely incapable of lying, looked over his shoulder at Elrond and gave the Elf a look of incredulity. Drogo’s real intent had been to scold the Elf for telling them that lying was the best option in the first place, but the Dwarves took it differently. More than one Dwarven Lord puffed up at the look on Drogo’s face and Thrór himself declared, “Of course you don’t bond, you’re a Halfling.” He rambled through an explanation about how he hadn’t meant Bilbo needed a Sentinel, but he wasn’t a warrior, and obviously no Hobbit was a warrior, no creature in the whole of Middle-earth was a warrior compared to Dwarves, and somehow turned the whole thing to a rant on Dwarven superiority that ignored all he didn’t know about Hobbits.

 

Somewhere in the middle of all that, Adalgrim realized the King wasn’t talking to them anymore, and shuffled his cousins back to their spots beside the Elves.

 

As if the longwinded speech about the glory of Dwarves wasn’t enough, at the end of it Thrór creaked to his feet and ignored the Elves. Bilbo didn’t need to understand the proper process for this sort of thing to know that the King was shunning Elrond. The Lord of Rivendell however, was not the kind of creature to be ignored. With no flinch to his expression, Elrond strode forward to the throne, like Thrór had been standing to welcome him forward rather than to leave him behind.

 

“I have no time for you today, Elrond.” Thrór sneered.

 

“Since I come to save your kingdom from ruin, I advise that you make time.”

 

“Are you threatening me?” Every Dwarf in the place went for their swords while Thrór leered forward.

 

“If I was threatening you, Master Dwarf, you would know.” Elrond’s voice was cold and powerful, echoing to every corner of the massive hall. Off in the distance, Bilbo could see Dwarves gathering at the windows and hear the scuffle of boots on the walkways below. Thrór bristled at being called anything less than King, but before he could shout at Elrond or demand his head, the Elven Lord continued. “Smaug is not the only dragon in Middle-earth.” The whole room went silent, even those Dwarven Lords who had puffed up in supposed affront to their king. “You know why Smaug came to Erebor, and yet you have done nothing to prevent further attacks.”

 

“My kingdom has already repelled one Dragon, Elf! We can handle another!” Thrór shouted.

 

Elrond silenced him with a raised eyebrow that demanded the Dwarf king shut up before he said something even more ridiculous. “No, by a stroke of luck your _grandson_ repelled a dragon, and tell me,” Elrond gave a long look around the room, “where has Thorin been since he fended off the Dragon?”

 

Thrór and his Lords carried no weapons on their persons, but if they did, there would’ve been war between the house of Elrond and the people of Durin. Instead of heeding the rage of their King, the people of Erebor were more concerned with the look of confusion and horror that graced Frerin’s face. “Has he not told you?” Elrond demanded of the prince.

 

“There is nothing to tell!” Thrór shouted, an edge of desperation working into his voice. “Nothing but tree-shagging lies!”

 

Elrond pursed his lips in the closest thing to displeasure that Bilbo had ever seen on the Elf’s face. “Given that the Lady Galdriel has been alive nearly as long as your species has been in existence, we can assume that she knows more than any of you about the habits of Dragons. So when she warned that your continued covetousness would lead to another dragon coming for your hoard, those of us with reason had hoped you would listen.”

 

Whatever Thrór might have said was drowned out by Frerin stepping forward. “What are you talking about?”

 

Elrond’s expression gentled at the painfully young Dwarf standing there with the weight of his brother and his kingdom on his shoulders. “Smaug came to Erebor because he felt the siren call of the gold you have in your treasury.”

 

“The Elves would have us be rid of our treasure so they can take it for themselves!”

 

“It has nothing to do with the gold itself, but how the gold is revered!” Elrond snapped at Thrór. He puffed out a slow sigh, and looked back to Frerin. “Dragons cannot sense gold in the earth, and cannot sense it when it has been crafted into something valued above the gold itself. The veins of ore in the roots of the mountain mean just as little as to a Dragon as a golden harp. But gold that is cast into coins and bricks and kept, not for exchange, but for nothing but the love of the gold itself? That calls to a dragon. It is the same sensation each dragon has for their own hoard, and they can feel the same goldlust calling to them in other creatures.

 

“That is why Smaug came for Erebor. For the lust he could feel in Thrór’s heart.”

 

There was shouting and shrieking amongst the Dwarves, all of them reacting furiously to this new piece of information. Some turned their wrath against Elrond for daring to speak such things, but most of the Dwarves had turned to their king with horrorstruck eyes for nearly causing the ruin of their people. Amidst the rather violent reaction, a single Dwarf strode forward from the dais and bowed to Elrond. The Dwarf had a strip of white running down the middle of his forked beard, and compared to the other Lords he looked a bit too young to be taking charge. But still he waived the Elven company away from the shouting. Any Dwarf that tried to step forward and ask them a question was glowered at until they peeled away.

 

They had about three seconds of silence after they reached the appointed suite of rooms before Frerin and a Mohawked Dwarf came stumbling through the door.

 

“If you’re here, who is with Thorin?” Split-beard demanded.

 

Mohawk waived him off. “Bifur and Dori are on duty. What I want to know is why this pointy-eared bastard thought it was a good idea to announce to the whole of Erebor that there’s probably another damn dragon on the way, and the King is baiting it here!”

 

Elrohir took Elladan by the sleeve and pulled him back beside the Hobbits, then put himself between the Mohawked Dwarf and them. The usually mellow Elf snapped, “Your King has known about the perils of his hoard for at least a decade and in his madness he has done nothing.”

 

“And who the hell are you to decide that we need to know that!”

 

“Any step we take to undercut Thrór’s power is a step to protect Thorin from waking up with a forced bond to an Ironfist.”

 

The Mohawked Dwarf demanded to know what Ironfists had to do with anything and Frerin explained what they had come across out in the plain, and how he had sent them away with Elrond’s Elves at his side. Elladan pressed his palm to Elrohir’s shoulder, calming his brother while the Dwarves shouted at one another over the situation. The argument devolved into their native tongue while Frerin tossed a hand at the Hobbits. The Dwarf with the split beard stuttered to a stop and stared at Bilbo and his cousins, while the Dwarf with the Mohawk started for them. Elrohir took a step forward in retaliation, and Frerin grabbed the other Dwarf and hissed something under his breath. “Apologies Lord Elrond. Allow me to introduce Balin,” he gestured to Dwarf with the split beard, who sunk into a polite bow, “son of Fundin, son of Farin, chief counselor to my brother Thorin. This,” Frerin released the Mowaked Dwarf, “is his brother Dwalin, the chief of Thorin’s guard.” The Mohawked Dwarf gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

 

Elrond made introductions for the Elves, then tilted his head to the side and gave Dwalin a long look. The Dwarf refused to be cowed, instead sticking out his chin and crossing his arms like Elrond ought to know better. “Master Dwalin, are you aware that you are coming into your gifts?”

 

Dwalin grumbled something in Khuzdul that Bilbo was certain meant he was calling Elrond an idiot. Balin elbowed his brother in the ribs. “Many _Shomakhâl_ and _Dunin_ have been coming into their gifts in recent days.”

 

“Because of Smaug?” Bilbo asked, and absolutely refused to react to the intense stared the sons of Fundin gave him.

 

“No, Thorin was the only Dwarf to find his gifts in the direct aftermath of the Dragon’s attack. Even the Dwarves on the ramparts who felt the heat of the Dragon’s fire were not so affected,” Balin explained. “But Thorin’s call has blanketed the whole mountain and in reply _Shomakhâl_ have been awakening to protect him, and _Dunin_ have awakened to comfort him.”

 

“But not _his_ Guide,” Bilbo prodded.

 

The Dwarves exchanged the same glance that Bilbo had grown accustomed to seeing on the Elves whenever they spoke about Thorin. Frerin gave Bilbo a gentle smile. “No, no Dwarf in this mountain is _Dunin_ to my brother.”

 

“But what about all those Dwarves from the other tribes who turned up today? Isn’t one of them supposed to be Thorin’s Guide?” Adalgrim asked.

 

Frerin stomped on Dwalin’s foot while Balin answered. “The Lady Dís welcomed them all to Erebor and she swears that not one is a match for her brother, whatever they might think about how perfect they are for our future king.”

 

“My sister,” Frerin explained at the looks of confusion. “The only person in the whole of Middle-earth who knows my brother better than I do. Well,” Frerin gave a dirty smirk, “better in some things.” Adalgrim shared the prince’s grim, while Bilbo and Drogo blushed for two entirely different reasons.

 

Before Frerin could tease them more, the door bashed open and in stumbled Glóin. Through panting breaths he exclaimed, “The King is sending the Firebeard princess down to the Stones.”

 

“What?” Frerin demanded, all humor gone from his voice. “He was going to wait for a day and see if Thorin woke just from having them in the mountain.”

 

“The King doesn’t believe Thorin’s bond will be strong enough for that. He is sending down the lasses one at a time with their retinues. They’re meant to each take his hand and see if that triggers the bond.”

 

Balin snorted. “And what are they actually doing?”

 

“Nori says that every Dwarf in the retinues is a Guide, and they’re all going to sneak a touch. And the Stiffbeards have lost their damn minds and are nursing a plot to stimulate a bond while Thorin’s unconscious.”

 

Bilbo absolutely, one hundred percent, did not want to know what ‘stimulating a bond’ entailed, but the thought of it infuriated him. “Why would they do such a thing?”

 

Oddly enough, it was Dwalin who answered. Frerin and Balin both hesitated, taking too long a moment to carefully choose their words, and Dwalin would have none of that. “He is Thorin called Oakenshield, the _Abzagâl‘azug_ , the Dragonslayer. He is the heir of Durin, true King Under the Mountain, and will be known until the breaking of the world as the right hand of Durin, his legend second only to the greatest of our fathers.” With each statement, Dwalin took a step forward, until he was pressed nearly chest-to-chest with Bilbo, staring down at the Hobbit to make himself clear.

 

Bilbo cocked his head to the side and refused to be intimidated. “But what does that matter if Thorin isn’t theirs?”

 

Dwalin’s grin was fierce and proud. “To understand that, you ought to go visit our library. It’s the best place to learn the ins and outs of Dwarrow bonding.”

 

Dwalin didn’t seem at all like the kind of fellow who would recommend a book as the answer to Bilbo’s questions, but he guessed that just went to show that you couldn’t judge a book by it’s cover. (Or a Dwarf by their tattooed skull.) “I shall have to look into that, then.”

 

“You should look into it now.”

 

Bilbo leaned back. “I thought—”

 

“No, no,” Balin added, stepping up beside his brother. “Dwalin is right. You should look into that as soon as possible. Right now, in fact.” Balin slung an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and led him towards the door, while Dwalin put himself between Bilbo and his cousins. “I’ll give you directions to the library, and when you get there, look for a young fellow called Ori. Imagine Dori with red hair, a slightly thinner nose, and mittens.”

 

“Mittens?”

 

“Yes, lad loves to knit.”

 

Bilbo tried to twist around in Balin’s grip to look for his cousins, or for an Elf about to run Balin through for trying to sneak off with him. “Of course your cousins and your Elven companions ought to stay here. There’s no doubt that our King will be sending someone along to check up on you. They’ll forgive one missing Hobbit, but multiple Hobbits or even one Elf will make them scour the mountain, which won’t work in your favor.”

 

“But can’t—”

 

“I must be back to the King before he notices that I’m gone, and Frerin and Dwalin will need to head down to the Stones to keep anything unsavory from happening to Thorin. But you’ll be quite alright making your own way to the library, I promise. If anything, you’ll be far less likely to get noticed if you don’t have a Dwarf with you.”

 

By this point Bilbo was out of the room, down the hall, and at the top of a rather dark and narrow set of stairs. Considering that there were no Elves trailing along behind him, Bilbo had to imagine that there was something in this library that Elrond hoped he might find, and that it really was best that Bilbo went alone (though he couldn’t imagine why). “Now laddie, just take this set of stairs all the way to the bottom, then the second left, and the fifth left after that.”

 

“But—”

 

Balin nudged him down the first few steps. “There should be plenty of glowing stones to light your way, and if you get lost, well, just follow your instincts and I’m sure you’ll get there.”  
 

Balin all but bounded down the hall and ignored Bilbo’s shout of, “What kind of library is this?” 


	9. Chapter 9

Bilbo was well and thoroughly lost. There was no point in denying it or pretending otherwise. He was going to die here in the confounded, confusing geography of this infernal mountain, with nothing but stone walls and strange blue lights to keep him company. He’d followed Balin’s instructions to the letter, but it had led him to a twisting narrow hall that never seemed to actually get anyplace. It vaguely reminded Bilbo of the secret paths that infested the Great Smials where the whole Took family lived. The tight passageways ran the length and breadth of the massive Hobbithole, allowing children to sneak about without getting caught.

 

Bilbo had plodded along the path, hoping that the smell of books would actually guide him on, but he’d been wandering so long that he didn’t believe it was possible anymore. In frustration, Bilbo gave a furious kick to the wall and shouted, “What’s wrong with you people!”

 

“Who are you talking to?” Bilbo jumped at the voice and twisted in the wrong direction. He had to whirl all the way around before he spotted a Dwarf who had appeared out of a miniscule side tunnel Bilbo had passed and taken for nothing more than a ventilation shaft.

 

“Oh!” Bilbo squeaked. “Wh-What, I mean…” he paused to clear his throat and straighten out his vest like nothing about this was strange. “Hello.”

 

The Dwarf was tall and broad, with curly hair pulled back into a braid. He raised one black eyebrow and replied, “Hello,” obviously waiting for an answer.

 

Bilbo got distracted for a moment by the low rumble of the Dwarf’s voice. It was rough, like he hadn’t used it quite a while, but Bilbo couldn’t imagine a reason why the fellow wouldn’t speak since Bilbo could feel it all the way down to his bones. “Yes well, I wasn’t talking to anyone in particular.”

 

The eyebrow went higher as the Dwarf began a slow stroll forwards. “Are you certain? You seemed too angry to be talking to yourself.”

 

“I wasn’t _angry_ ,” Bilbo snapped, unwilling to let anything in this confounded mountain have enough control over him to actually make him upset. “I was a bit frustrated.”

 

“Hmm,” the Dwarf quirked a half smile that made him look a little dangerous. “And might I ask what had you so frustrated?”

 

“I can’t find the library!” With fervid gestures Bilbo explained Balin’s directions. “But, as you can see, I have no idea where I am!”

 

Bilbo turned to the Dwarf for that final declaration and found the fellow had crossed the distance between them and was now barely a breath away from Bilbo. The Hobbit stumbled back to the realm of proper personal space, and somehow found his back pressed to the wall. “Up the stairs.”

 

“Wh-what?” Bilbo stammered, trying to keep his wits about him. The Dwarf wasn’t plump and pretty by Hobbit standards, but Bilbo had to admit the fellow was handsome in an unconventional way. What with him having nothing but tight trousers and a rather damp shirt, even Bilbo could admit the fellow had an appeal.

 

“The _Katûb-zahar_ , The House of Knowledge, begins at the third door from the front of the main hall. The pathway beyond it contains numerous school rooms for Dwarrowlings who are young in their studies. At the end of the path, the way right leads to a small stair towards most of the mountain’s living spaces so that the Dwarrowlings can come straight to school when they are running late, while the path left leads to more school rooms and the stairs to the Grand Library.”

 

“Well that is thoroughly informative, but—”

 

“ _Up_ to the Grand Library. The smaller stairs lead down to this place, almost as far from the library as you can reach without actually entering the mines.”

 

Bilbo sunk against the wall. “Oh bother. Really? But those weren’t Balin’s directions.”

 

The Dwarf nodded, still with that little smile across his lips. Lips that Bilbo was absolutely not glancing at. “The library was placed near the mountain’s peak, to protect the pages from the smoke, ash, and dust that are all part of mining and smithing. If he sent you down, he must’ve been confused.”

 

“So if I want to find my way to the library I have to climb back up nearly the whole of the mountain?”

 

“I’m afraid so.”

 

Bilbo puffed out a frustrated breath, but couldn’t really find it in him to fault the Dwarves for taking such pains to protect the written word. He couldn’t say that he would’ve done any differently in their position (except for the stairs. He never would be able to wrap his mind around more than one level to a house). He straightened up and tried not to look as put out as he was, ignoring how the fellow didn’t back up when Bilbo moved into his space. “I best be off then.”

 

The Dwarf didn’t step back to give Bilbo room to walk away, if anything he leaned in a bit closer and stared at Bilbo like he was a pie and the Dwarf wanted to gobble him up. “What are you? You’re not from Erebor, I know all our people. And unless my senses deceive me, you’re not a Dwarf at all.”

 

Bilbo puffed out his chest. “Of course I’m not a Dwarf, I’m a Hobbit!”

 

“A… Hobbit?”

 

“A Halfing.” When the Dwarf didn’t respond, Bilbo prodded, “Shire-folk?” When that got nothing Bilbo sighed. He’d grown quite accustomed to not a single soul among the big people knowing about them. “My people hail from the green valleys between Rivendell and the Great Sea.”

 

“Ahh, the _Melekûnh._ The small folk from a growing land near the Blue Mountains?”

 

“ _Mele- melekun_? I haven’t a clue what that means, but it sounds like the Shire.”

 

The fellow twitched into a larger smile at the sound of Bilbo’s accent butchering his language. “Tell me what a _Melekûnh_ of the kindly west is doing at the Lonely Mountain?”

 

Bilbo had spent enough time surrounded by Dwarves that the lie came easily to his lips. “My companions and I came with Lord Elrond to see what aid we could offer the Dwarves in their time of need.”

 

The Dwarf snorted. “And what aid might you offer, little Hobbit?”

 

Bilbo dropped his weight and ducked out from between the Dwarf and the wall to head back the way he came. “I’ll have you know that Hobbits are excellent gardeners. The world outside the mountain is all burnt to ash thanks to that dragon, and my friends and I thought we could help. Dale hasn’t a single crop to their name and doesn’t have a clue what to do with their fields to keep you all fed this winter. I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Mister Dwarf. Just because we might not be warriors doesn’t mean we can’t help where we see a need!”

 

With long strides, the Dwarf stepped around Bilbo and blocked off his way, raising both hands in supplication. “My apologies, Master Hobbit. I did not mean to offend.”

 

Bilbo crossed his arms and tapped his foot, not giving the fellow an inch. “Then perhaps you ought to be better about scorning the people who are trying to help you.”

 

The Dwarf cocked his head to the side and hmm-ed like he was deep in thought. “Did you know I can smell the lie on you?” Bilbo froze. “Most wouldn’t, because it is so close to the truth. You want to help the Dwarves, but that’s not the only reason you’re here. There is something you’re keeping from me.” Bilbo tried to sputter out something about what an improper thought, accusing him of subterfuge like that, but the Dwarf reached out and stroked one gentle hand down Bilbo’s jacket-covered arm. Considering the sheer size of his hand and the rough callouses adorning his fingers, Bilbo had somehow expected his touch to be heavy or harsh, but no, this was soft, like he though Bilbo might shatter under the weight. “You can keep it from me, but I’d like to ask why you feel lying is necessary.”

 

Bilbo was prepared to tell the Dwarf that he had lost his sense, but there was something about his face, despite the hard lines and fierce angles, that told Bilbo to trust him. “Because your King already hates my companions and I. He doesn’t like that we’re here, doesn’t like that we came with the Elves, and doesn’t like me in particular.”

 

“Why?”

 

Bilbo huffed out a sigh and slid down against the wall to the ground. “That, is a very long story.”

 

The fellow settled down beside Bilbo, in between him and the exit. “I have no demands on my time.”

 

“My cousins and I came with Lord Elrond. We’re here to see about the fields, and he’s here to make the King see sense about this gold hoarding business.”

 

“What would the Elves have to say about such a thing?”

 

Bilbo could hear the tension in the Dwarf’s voice, something he had grown all too accustomed to since arriving here. He rolled his eyes. “Dragons can feel the call of gold. Not gold in the mountain, because that’s part of the Earth, and not gold that’s been turned into something because then it’s valued for what it is, and not for the gold, but gold that sits and is adored for just being gold. Smaug could feel all the fondness your King has for the gold. That’s why he came.”

 

The Dwarf stared at Bilbo for a long moment, and Bilbo began to get nervous that the fellow might take this information poorly. He couldn’t imagine how the Dwarf hadn’t heard all of this before since nearly half the mountain had been eavesdropping on the conversation between Thrór and Elrond. “How do you know this?” the Dwarf demanded.

 

“Elrond says Lady Galadriel knew and told your King about it years ago. Frerin said he hadn’t heard a thing about it, so Elrond announced it to everyone watching. He says they deserve to know that if your King doesn’t do something with all the gold he’s got tucked away downstairs then it’s going to attract another dragon.”

 

“Thrór knew?” he croaked. “And he kept the truth of it to himself?” Bilbo wasn’t sure if the Dwarf was talking to him, or was just murmuring the horrified words to himself. Bilbo pressed up against the Dwarf’s side, offering him what support he could in the face of this new, awful information. “People could have died because of him. All for gold that we would be denied anyway because the Dragon would have driven us out. And he knew?” The Dwarf’s voice cracked and Bilbo pressed his face against his shoulder, listening to the Dwarf’s heartbeat slow back to something safe.

 

Bilbo could feel the Dwarf’s hand hovering in the air above his head, brushing along the tips of Bilbo’s curls. A beat before Bilbo pressed back into the Dwarf’s palm as reassurance that the Dwarf could touch him, a scream ripped through the hall.

 

By the time the sound properly registered in Bilbo’s mind, the Dwarf had him up and tucked safely away. The scream had come through the miniscule hall that the Dwarf had taken to find Bilbo, and now he peered around the corner, one hand behind him to keep himself between Bilbo and whatever else might be there. Bilbo refused to be coddled by this stranger, and ducked under his arm to peek.

 

The room beyond was barely lit, the standard blue light of the halls giving way to something almost green. Beneath the hustling and shouting of Dwarves, Bilbo could hear the steady drip of water and feel the damp in the air. Bilbo caught a flash of red and shuffled to the other side of the door to get a better view.

 

Plopped near the center of the room was a sobbing Dwarrowdam. Her bright red hair was pulled up in a tangle of braids that exposed the long line of her neck and her dangerously low cleavage. Between the crimson dress, the braided beard, and the silver jewelry stacked every place there was room, Bilbo supposed, that to a Dwarf, she would have been exquisite. At least, she might’ve been if she wasn’t weeping and wailing about something in Khuzdul. Whatever it was she blubbered quite emphatically, and the bundle of Dwarven Guides around her all looked more than a little uncomfortable with the dramatics.

 

Behind the circle of weeping was another Dwarrowdam, and this one looked about ten seconds away from seizing them all by their braids and tossing them out the door. Her perfect, blonde curls were pulled back into two braids and between the slits in her finely-pressed skirt Bilbo could see flashes of leggings. She stormed around the room calling out orders, and the battle-hardened Dwarves jumped to obey. Given that one of those Dwarves was Dwalin, Bilbo assumed this lovely, but practical, Dwarrowdam was Dís.

 

“What are they doing down here?” Bilbo’s Dwarf murmured.

 

Bilbo stared up at him in disbelief. “Honestly, the bit about the gold I can understand, but what have you been up to that you don’t know anything about this?”

 

“I’ve been… busy.”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Your King moved Prince Thorin down to the Stones when his gifts appeared.” Bilbo missed how the Dwarf shuddered at ‘Thorin’ crossing the Hobbit’s lips. “They’ve gone through every Guide in Erebor, both bonded and unbonded which is its own measure of insanity—”

 

“I would never take a bonded Guide,” the Dwarf snapped.

 

Bilbo patted him on the arm. “Don’t worry, according to Frerin, Thorin made some sort of ridiculous oath that if he felt the pull to a bonded Guide he’d kill himself first.”

 

“You consider that foolish?”

 

The Dwarf went painfully still under Bilbo’s hand, like he was trying to keep even his blood from flowing through his veins. Bilbo pulled back, but the Dwarf twisted in Bilbo’s grip and took him by the wrist to keep him close. “I’m a Hobbit.” Bilbo shrugged. “We rarely bond, and if we do, it’s without all this ‘One’ business.”

 

The Dwarf’s hand spasmed around Bilbo, clenching him tight. “What do you mean?”

 

Bilbo shrugged and turned his attention back to the frantic Dwarves. “We bond when both parties choose to. A forced bond or a bond when we’ve chosen another, are impossible.”

 

“It is possible for Dwarven Sentinels. We ache for our Guides, even before we come into our gifts. Sometimes the ache is enough that a Sentinel who should know better, who should be stronger, collapses under the weight of it and bonds with someone who is not their One.”

 

“But if they’re happy together, doesn’t that make them their One by default?” Bilbo asked, keeping a steady eye on how the red-headed Dwarrowdam managed to cry a little more hysterically when people paid too much attention to Dís.

 

“No,” the Dwarf breathed. “Your One is unchanging, tied to you before you are born and beside you after you are dead. It is better to die before bonding with another than to betray your One, to know that in your impatience they are forever losts to you.”

 

The Dwarf trailed off into silence, and Bilbo twisted to find the fellow’s face perilously close to his curls. “Did you… did you just sniff me?”

 

“You smell like flowers,” the Dwarf murmured.

 

“I should certainly hope so.” Bilbo blustered, ignoring his own blush. “I’m a Hobbit. We smell like good tilled earth, and vegetables, and pipe weed, and flowers. Not at all like the smell they’ve got around the mountain and present.”

 

“It’s silver.”

 

“What?”

 

“The smell is molten silver. Dís opened up all the vents from the forges and demanded that the only thing the craftsmen work was silver because it’s… the prince’s favorite. People were carrying in whiffs of gold and bronze when they came to visit, and he reacted poorly to them. He stopped breathing the last time someone touched him with bronze on their clothes.”

 

Bilbo stopped paying attention to the dramatized weeping and turned all his attention to the blue eyes so close to his own. “I think it says quite a bit about this Thorin that the whole kingdom is doing whatever they can to try and help him wake. It should be sad really, but the people here believe so strongly that he’ll wake for them that you can’t help but believe as well.”

 

“Did you think he wouldn’t?”

 

“Sometimes a Guide doesn’t make a difference. A Sentinel needs a reason to stay.”

 

The Dwarf cleared his throat and slipped his fingers through the ends of Bilbo’s curls. “Did yours, did something happen to your Sentinel?”

 

Bilbo let his lips tick up at the terribly unsubtle attempt at questioning. “My mother. She was a Sentinel.”

 

The Dwarf bit his lip to keep from a sigh of relief. “How did she die?”

 

“My father fell ill, and she-- she just stopped living. She tried for me, and I tried so hard to shore her up, but in the end it didn’t matter.”

 

“Few Sentinels outlive the loss of their Guide. Even with children.”

 

“He wasn’t her Guide.” The Dwarf stiffened in surprise. “He was the antithesis of a Guide. Not a speck of Sentinel or Guide blood anywhere in his family until I came along. But he loved my mother. He _loved_ her, and that was all that mattered.

 

“There was a fellow in another family, far better suited to my mother’s adventurous spirit, and everyone, including him, believed he was her Guide. He threw a fit when my mother proposed to my father, and she socked him in the jaw and said she didn’t give two figs about destiny, all she wanted was to spend her life with the staid, ordinary Hobbit that she loved.”

 

The Dwarf slipped an arm behind Bilbo and tucked the Hobbit against his chest. There were no words of comfort that would make the ache of his parent’s loss go away, but for some reason just sharing the weight with another made it seem better than it had been. The Dwarf pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s crown, and with the pulse of warmth that came from the barest brush of contact the Hobbit snuggled closer. “I should’ve guessed,” he murmured. “You’ve got Frerin’s eyes.”

 

“In truth, we both have Durin’s eyes.” The Dwarf leaned back, pulling Bilbo with him and into his lap. “You should be proud of me for not storming the gate the moment I felt you cross the threshold. My brother and I have always had similar tastes. He must’ve been sorely tempted to sample you.”

 

Bilbo pinched Thorin’s side in retaliation and relished how his grip tightened. “I have two cousins that are far handsomer than I that your brother can try and seduce. And I do believe that your brother took one look at me and knew who I was.”

 

“You meant he saw through your brilliant rouse about being a gardener? I’m stunned.”

 

Bilbo gave him a vicious jab to the ribs. “I couldn’t very well walk in and say, ‘Hello, I’ve been having dreams about a black-haired Dwarf that everyone from Elrond to Frerin thinks is your prince,’ now could I?”

 

Thorin tucked Bilbo’s head under his chin, like he could protect him from the whole of the Dwarven kingdom. “No, I will admit it was wise to keep that to yourself.”

 

Bilbo traced his fingertips along the sleeve of Thorin’s shirt, the thin fabric enough to spare them a true touch but still give that warm glimmer of connection. Bilbo skimmed close to the shirt’s cuff, and it took every ounce of strength Thorin had to pull back. “If you touch me, I will bond us right here with my sister in the next room looking for me.”

 

Bilbo popped back at the growl in Thorin’s voice. Thorin could almost taste Bilbo’s nerves in the air and tried to pull himself back to keep from scaring his sweet, little Guide. Bilbo felt Thorin withdraw and pressed back against his chest. “Stop that. It’s just, bonding for Hobbits is usually a gentle sort of thing, easy to slip into when you’re dancing, or over dinner. Your match doesn’t even have to be there, you just both decide that you’d rather be together than apart.” Thorin’s silence was awkward. “Is it so different for Dwarves?”

 

“Bonding begins when two souls come together… and finishes when they are joined in body. It is a union in every sense.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Thorin didn’t have to look to feel the heat of Bilbo’s blush. “Would you, I… my soul is already tied to yours, I cannot think of a time when it was not and the only thing that would undo it is my death. But if you leave with your Elves I can keep myself from completing our bond. Frerin and Dwalin would swear to keep me away from your homeland in case I succumb to temptation.”

 

“Are all Dwarves so dramatic or is it just you?”

 

“Dramatic?” Thorin sputtered. Bilbo was happy to note that the melancholy restraint had vanished from his voice. “I’m trying to do right by you.”

 

“In what world would I want to leave my Sentinel? I was simply saying that if we’re going to be… _bonding_ in such a manner I would rather we did the bonding in a bed.”

 

“Truly?” Thorin sounded stunned.

 

“Or course, truly. I don’t understand this Dwarven obsession with rocks, but we Hobbits prefer our creature comforts. Including bedding and doors that lock.”

 

Thorin pressed his face to the juncture of Bilbo’s neck. “I can find bedding.” Bilbo thought he was about to be scooped up and dragged off to the nearest room with a couch, when Thorin shuddered and pulled away. “Dwalin is coming.”

 

“Excellent. He can stand guard then.”

 

Thorin thumped his head against the stone behind him, forcing himself to peel away from Bilbo. “They’ll all come looking for me now.”

 

Bilbo slipped to his feet and pulled Thorin up by the scruff of his shirtsleeve. “And they can find you after we’ve bonded.”

 

Thorin pressed close to Bilbo and looked down on the Hobbit from his substantial height. “There is nothing in this world or the next that would give me more pleasure.”

 

Bilbo sighed. “But it’s not going to happen, is it?”

 

“I would rather bond without the fear of someone breaking down the door to get to us. And I’m likely to stab anyone who dared interfere.” Thorin listed forward like he couldn’t help himself, almost pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s. “Dwalin will take you back to Elrond. He will protect you, and I will come for you when it is safe.”

 

Dwalin stepped out of the shadow behind them, and he looked so grateful to see Thorin awake that he probably would’ve agreed to do anything. Bilbo pressed back into Thorin for a careful hug. Had he been a little more Took he would’ve grabbed Thorin by the curls and yanked him down into a kiss that would’ve solved everything, but he restrained himself. “You’ll keep Frerin with you, and you’ll stay safe?”

 

“I swear to you my _Duninel,_ the Guide of my heart, I will come for you. All I need is to get these interlopers out of my mountain.”

 

“And get your grandfather distracted by something.”

 

Dwalin snickered behind them, and Thorin conceded, “I’ll lock him in the treasury and he won’t notice a thing.”

 

They stayed like that, pressed tight together, until Dwalin grabbed Bilbo by the scruff of his shirt and pulled him down the hall. “Come on lover-boy. The sooner we get you out of here, the sooner Thorin can turn this whole thing over to Dís, the sooner you can be happily bonded.”

 

Bilbo shuffled backwards down the hall, watching Thorin as long as he could in the weak light of the hall. Just before they turned the corner, Thorin called out, “Wait!”

 

Dwalin pulled Bilbo behind him and held out his axe to keep Thorin back. “Of with you, Thorin. You’d never forgive me if I let you bond in the damn hallway.”

 

“No, it’s not—” Thorin slammed to a stop when Dwalin didn’t move the axe. “I need to speak with him.”

 

“I’ve gone avout with you enough times to know how ‘speaking’ turns out for you.”

 

Bilbo popped around Dwalin. “How does this speaking turn out?”

 

Thorin smacked the axe aside before Dwalin had the chance to voice whatever his wicked smile was thinking. “I don’t know your name. You are my _Duninel_ , and as happy as I am to call you that for the rest of my life, I still want to know your name.”

 

The smile on Bilbo’s face could’ve lit up the night sky. “My name is Bilbo Baggins.”

 

When Thorin smiled, he looked so beautiful that Bilbo could barely breathe. “It is an honor to meet you, Bilbo.” Thorin stepped forward with hands outstretched, and got Dwalin’s axe pressed to his throat for his troubles.

 

Rather than pull away, Thorin pressed closer to Dwalin. “Now, don’t be like that,” Dwalin scolded. “You don’t want your lad’s first memory of you in a fight to be me taking your skinny arse to the ground. Back to the Stones with you.”

 

There was a glint in Thorin’s eyes that meant he would fight off Dwalin if Bilbo wanted him to. And Bilbo was not all that ashamed to admit there was a very non-Hobbity part of him that wanted Thorin to fight for him. Instead, Bilbo swallowed that back (and judging by the look of hunger that had descended on Thorin’s face, Bilbo hadn’t been quite quick enough about it). “I’ll see you soon?”

 

“I swear to you Bilbo, as soon as I am able.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, I know, but it had to be cut here. Don't get mad.

Bilbo made it back to his room only to fall asleep in a tangle of Hobbits and to wake to the wide eyes of two Dwarflings.

 

Bilbo hadn’t thought it would Thorin any time at all to straighten things out and come for him, so Bilbo had settled in to the sitting room with his eyes on the door. When bedtime rolled around and Bilbo still refused to relinquish his position, Adalgrim and Drogo had dragged out blankets and pillows to curl up beside him. Despite the hesitant looks from Elves, the three Hobbits were more than willing to wait until the soon-to-be-member of their family decided to come home. Through the night their conversation spun around Adalgrim ranting, “He’s a _prince,_ ” while Drogo stuck to his demand that, “There will be no bonding until after you’re engaged. Grandmother would kill us both if I let you bond without the guarantee of marriage, prince or not.”

 

Bilbo had attempted to explain the Dwarven concept of bonds, and how he didn’t give two figs about Thorin being a prince, but despite their best efforts, his cousins didn’t understand. In between the harping and the, “Oh, leave it alone, will you?” Bilbo fell asleep in a happy tangle of warm blankets and sleepy Hobbits.

 

Sometime early or late—Bilbo couldn’t quite tell which with the lack of sunshine—he woke to two pairs of blue eyes peering over the rim of his nest of blankets. His eyes fluttered closed, then he realized what he’d seen: blue eyes of the line of Durin.

 

His eyes snapped open in time to see a blush spread in tandem across little Dwarfling cheeks. Together they sank below the blanket rim and Bilbo didn’t need to see them to know that the blond one had elbowed the brunette and was frantically gesturing towards the door.

 

Bilbo leaned forward to peer down at the boys and tell them they didn’t need to hide, when together the Dwarves popped to their feet. Bilbo had grown up surrounded by Took cousins, and he absolutely did not flail back when they appeared. Bagginses did not flail. The small— _small_ , mind you—reaction that Bilbo did have, made the boys giggle and crawl up beside him. “Fíli!” shouted the blond, and “Kíli!” declared his younger brother. “At your service.” Together they dropped into the best bows they could manage while on their knees, then wrapped themselves into a snuggle with Bilbo.

 

Instinctively, Bilbo wrapped one arm around each of the boys and let them settle their heads against his shoulders. “You’re the only thing Uncle has talked about since he woke up,” Kíli said. (At least, Bilbo believed the dark-haired one was Kíli. Their introductions had been a bit abrupt.)

 

“Not the _only_ thing, Kee. He did give us hugs and ask us if we’d been good for our mother while he was away.”

 

“Your right Fee, he did. Though not nearly as many questions as he usually does.”

 

“Well that’s because he was distracted by Uncle Bilbo.”

 

“And Uncle never, ever gets distracted. So we had to come and meet you.”

 

“And scold you like our mother does us for not telling us that you were playing with Uncle. Mother always wants to meet our friends, and so we should get to meet hers and Uncle’s too. And Uncle Frerin says you’re better than a friend, you’re a One. You’re the best friend Uncle Thorin could ever ask for.”

 

“That means it’s only fair that we meet you, after all.”

 

Bilbo watched the conversation ping pong between the two boys, putting pieces together. “May I assume that you would be Dís’s sons? Frerin seems a bit too lascivious to have children.”

 

“What’s lavivious?” Kili asked while Fili nodded.

 

“La-sciv-i-ous, and ask your mother. How did the two of you find me?”

 

“Uncle told Mum that he’d sent you off to be protected by the Elves, because he trusts Elrond to skin anyone alive who tries to touch you.” Fili explained, pitching his voice low in his best imitation of Thorin.

 

“Mum said it was the most practical thing she’d ever heard Uncle Thorin say, but Uncle Frerin called Uncle Thorin a dunderhead for not bonding with you while he had the chance.” Kili added, leaning forward to try and whisper it in Bilbo’s ear. Bilbo supposed that this was how the two lads preferred to operate, one stating the facts while the other had fun sharing tidbits that they probably knew better than to speak. Bilbo had no experience with guessing the ages of Dwarves, but in Hobbit years Kili looked about ten, and Fili looked about fifteen, so about five and eight amongst Men, and who on Middle-earth knew what they’d be for Elves.

 

“Why didn’t you bond?” Kili asked, with all the innocence of a child who didn’t know quite what his question entailed.

 

“Because he is not yet married,” Drogo interrupted. Thankfully, Drogo was a sap when it came to children, and he smiled at the Dwarflings like he found them charming for interrupting his sleep. “Hobbits generally wed before they bond, or at least get engaged.”

 

Bilbo narrowed his eyes at Drogo, since that wasn’t true in the slightest. The whole Took family was a tangled web of siblings bonded to siblings, married to cousins, and trading recipes with Brandybucks. Marriage to your bonded partner was considered outdated and more than a bit uncomfortable, so of course it was something the Baggins line preferred. Drogo conceded to Bilbo’s expression though. “Alright, not _all_ Hobbits, but since Bilbo is far away from home with a Sentinel of a whole other species, he’s not allowed to bond until he’s engaged.”

 

“Says who?” Fili demanded, affronted on Bilbo’s behalf.

 

Kili elbowed his brother. “His Mum, obviously. Or maybe Uncle Bilbo has an Uncle like Thorin. An Uncle like Frerin would probably let him get bonded without getting married though. So do you?” The boy flopped against Bilbo’s chest, looking up at him with eyes that were a picture-perfect mirror of Thorin’s.

 

“I have several Uncles, but the order comes from my grandmother. My cousin Drogo is just carrying it out.”

 

“Why not your Mum?” Kili asked.

 

Bilbo cleared his throat, the ache that usually accompanied a mention of his mother less today than it had been yesterday. “My Mother and Father are both dead.”

 

Kili patted him on the cheek. “It’s alright, our Da is dead too. Mum says Wargs got him when I was just a baby, but really she found him in bed with another Dwarrowdam.” Drogo’s eyes got so large that Bilbo though they were about to pop out of his head.

 

Adalgrim put off the pretense of clinging to sleep and popped our from under his pillows. “What did she do?”

 

“Killed him,” Fili shrugged, like it wasn’t outrageous at all.

 

“Killed him?” Drogo squeaked, obviously rethinking letting these strange creatures into his family tree.

 

Both boys were old enough to know what Drogo’s tone meant, and they stiffened in Bilbo’s arms. Before they had the chance to retreat, Bilbo pulled them both close and pressed kisses to their tangled manes. “I’m sure your mother did the right thing.”

 

“Well of course she did,” Kili grumbled. “She is a princess of Durin and we was her One, and he took another Dwarrowdam to bed.”  

 

Kili was easily swayed by Bilbo’s show of affection, but though Fili pressed closer to Bilbo, he kept a close eye on the Hobbit cousins. “Adultery is unpardonable to Dwarves. You don’t marry unless you know for sure that you want to spend your life with someone.”

 

Drogo and Adalgrim had the grace to nod along with Fili’s explanation. Adultery was anathema to Hobbits. They married young and married for love, and if a couple decided that they would do better apart, they usually ended up in houses next door that their children bounced between. Rather than ask questions of Dwarflings too young to think about the answer, they assumed that it was much the same for Dwarves. At least, until you started cheating.

 

Adalgrim cast a nervous glance at Bilbo, like he was unsure that Bilbo and his life of bachelorhood would be able to survive complete fidelity. Fili puffed out his chest while Kili landed a vicious kick to Adalgrim’s knee. “Bonding is the same thing as marriage to us Dwarves. Uncle Thorin told Mum and Uncle Frerin that he could feel Uncle the moment he stepped inside Erebor, that he ‘could feel Uncle Bilbo’s soul singing to him through the Stones.’ That means they’re bonded already and they have been for a long time!”

 

“What?” Adalgrim yelped (both at the statement and at his knee).

 

Bilbo tapped Fili’s arm, stilling him before he spoke. “According to Thorin, Dwarves have two levels of bonding. The first is a connection of souls that always dwells between a Dwarf and their One, and the second a connection of…” he paused, fully aware of eager Dwarfling ears. “Flesh.”

 

Drogo blushed and Adalgrim grinned. “So you’re half married already?”

 

“According to the Bagginses, I’m married in the only way that counts,” Bilbo replied, delicately.

 

“You went and got married without letting us meet him?” Drogo squeaked, jumping ahead to how he was going to explain this to the Baggins family matriarch.

 

“They’ve always been married,” Fili interrupted from somewhere amidst the blankets. While the Hobbits were talking, both Fili and Kili had burrowed into the covers, bored now it looked like things wouldn’t devolve into a fight. Adalgrim, of course, went in after them, while Drogo gaped. Bilbo imagined that Drogo had thought there were no creatures in the world more unruly than Tooks and hated to be proven otherwise.

 

“What do you mean, ‘always married’?” Drogo asked, anxious for this to be something he couldn’t have prevented.

 

“Uncle Bilbo is Uncle Thorin’s One.” It was Kili’s voice this time, from somewhere behind Adalgrim had entered the mess of blankets.

 

“And what is a ‘One’?”

 

“A Dwarven soulmate,” Elrond interrupted. “A Sentinel’s perfect Guide, their partner in life and death.”

 

Five Hobbit and Dwarf heads popped out of the tangle of covers to look at the ancient Elven Lord who had managed to sneak up on them. (Only now did Bilbo realize that the boys had managed to sneak into the room without waking any of the Elven guards, hence the slightly puckered look to Elrond’s face.) “Prince Fili, Prince Kili,” Elrond gave a polite nod to the boys, who froze, then dropped into a bow.

 

Fili put himself between Elrond and Kili, and murmured a stiff hello. Bilbo had read enough stories to know that Elves and Dwarves didn’t get along, though judging by Elrond’s words, Thorin was better about that sort of thing than most of his species. His nephews though, it seemed they were torn between their own youthful pleasure with the world and the upset they had been taught by everyone else. Bilbo squeezed them both and gave his brightest smile. “Lads, I don’t know if you’ve been introduced, but this is Lord Elrond of Rivendell. He’s a very dear friend of mine, and he brought my cousins and I safely over the Misty Mountains so that I could be with Thorin.”

 

Kili looked up at Bilbo with wide, innocent eyes that were going to cause no end of havoc when he was older, Bilbo could tell. “Really?”

 

“He did indeed. And I’m not ashamed to admit that without Elrond and his people that Adalgrim, Drogo and I wouldn’t have made it. He saved all our lives several times over.”

 

“Really?” asked Kili, turning those eyes on Elrond.

 

Elrond nodded, and Kili darted forward and smashed into the Elf with as massive a hug as his small arms could manage. Bilbo wanted to watch Elrond try to react to getting hugged by a Dwarf—which Bilbo was positive had never happened to him before—but Fili gave an insistent tug on Bilbo’s sleeve. “What do you mean you were attacked?”

 

Bilbo ran soothing fingers through the lad’s hair, just like his father had done to him when he fussed about Belladonna’s senses. “We ran across some Orcs along the way, but it turned out fine.”

 

The lad crossed his arms and glowered up at Bilbo like he was being difficult on purpose. “Where?”

 

“Here and there.” Bilbo soothed.

 

“In the mountains?” Fili demanded.

 

“And before Rivendell,” Adalgrim added. “Don’t forget about those, Bilbo. They’re the ones who chased us here, after all.” Daft Adalgrim thought he was being helpful, but the glowers from Drogo and Bilbo told him otherwise.

 

Fili whirled on Lord Elrond. “Why was Uncle Bilbo being chased?”

 

Bilbo tried to stammer out something about how there were Orcs everywhere in the wilds, but Fili kept his eyes on Elrond, and Elrond was not one given to lying, even to children. “Is he still being chased?” Whatever Fili saw in Elrond’s expression told him everything he needed to know, and the little Dwarf went tearing out the room. Kili froze for a moment before he went after his brother, shouting for Fili while Fili screamed for Thorin.

 

“Well,” Adalgrim muttered. “That can’t be good.”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Bilbo chased after the boys, hissing at Fili to stop shouting, which just made him shout all the more. (Bilbo spared a moment to send up an apology to his mother for his own contrary nature.) In the meantime, Kili caught up to Fili, taking advantage of the path his brother plowed through the poor bystanding Dwarves that had the misfortune to be in their path. Both boys bobbed and weaved their way through a final clump of guards to burst through a massive set of double doors.

 

Bilbo imagined that the lads must have done this once or twice before to know the perfect spot to apply pressure to make the doors swing open quite so easily. He had to admit, it was a skill they put to good use. A slow, creeping opening wouldn’t have been nearly so dramatic.

 

As it was, the doors crashed open and every Dwarf in the room beyond and in the hall before, jumped to a stop. A few Dwarves with no trace of common sense tried to snatch the boys up as they passed, but some artful twisting by Kili and a swift kick by Fili got them to the far side of the room unscathed. A red-bearded Dwarf (with no hair on his head) shouted, “What is the meaning of this?” but no one paid him any attention since the boys were busy leaping into Thorin’s arms.

 

The sight of Thorin smiling so honestly at his nephews clenched tight something in Bilbo’s chest. Given their culture, Hobbits were prone to be fond of those who were good with children, and the way Thorin leaned close to Kili to let the lad push back his braids and whisper in his ear was quite endearing. Whatever the boy murmured had Thorin snapping up, his eyes flitting past the waiting Lords and the Dwarves who’d clumped at the door to catch some gossip, and landing on Bilbo alone in the hall.

 

The world condensed between them, pulling tight the ribbon that had always bound them together. Bilbo knew better, but for a moment he believed that he could stretch out his hand and press his palm to Thorin’s cheek. Thorin took a shuddering step forward, like the sight of Bilbo so near and yet still so far was more than he could bear. Bilbo was half a breath away from running forward and joining the Dwarves in their hug, when Thrór chose that moment to start shouting.

 

“What is the meaning of this!” Thrór stormed down from the dais at the far end of the receiving room, barely able to walk he was so laden with gems. Bilbo had to wonder if it was a Dwarven thing to have overlarge, raised thrones in all your welcoming places, or if it was a Thrór thing. Given that Thrór looked a bit like a duck waddling down those stairs, he decided that it might be best to introduce Thorin to the Hobbit system of saying hello with scones rather than demeaning glowers from a fellow who looked ridiculous.

 

The room was packed with foreign Dwarves, each decked out in their bejeweled finest. A lesser Hobbit might’ve been a bit intimidated by all these Guides with their glimmering gems and disturbingly large axes, but all Bilbo could see was how Thorin couldn’t take his eyes off him. Luckily, Thrór’s shouts were distracting enough that no one had yet noticed how Thorin wasn’t paying his grandfather a speck of attention.

 

However, Thorin’s eyes being on Bilbo meant that they weren’t on Thrór. In a rage, the King stormed over to his grandson and ripped the two young Dwarves out of Thorin’s grip. “This is not to be borne! Princes of Erebor should not behave in so despicable a manner!”

 

Frerin and three other familiar Dwarves headed for the boys, while Dwalin seized the confusion to slip out of the room. He grabbed Bilbo by the bicep and hauled him back down the hall. Thorin shuddered at the sight of another touching his Guide, but Thrór chose that moment to seize Kili by the scruff of his jerkin and shake him. More than a few of the Dwarves looked horrified, but far too many looked at Kili like he had only brought it on himself for angering the king. But no matter their expressions, none of them but the Dwarves loyal to Thorin stepped forward to stop the King. Fili rammed his grandfather’s side, battering small fists against Thrór’s chest to force his brother free. Thrór did drop one hand, but instead of freeing Kili, he used it to strike Fili across the face and send him sprawling to the ground.

 

The world froze. Bilbo watched Fili’s head wrench around, his blond hair whipping about like a halo as he crashed down to the hard stone. His eyes were wide, not in pain, but in shock that his own family would attack him. He pressed small, shaking fingers to the blossoming red on his cheek and flinched at the pressure.

 

Bilbo understood that in this moment there were paths he could choose.

 

One: Bilbo could dash his way back to the Elves, letting Elrond hide him until Thorin solved all these problems (preferably by venting that Dwarven sense of right and wrong on his own grandfather). Then Thorin would come in a blaze of glory and announce that everything had been handled, and he would very much like to bond with Bilbo now. Bilbo would demure, saying something appropriately scandalized about Hobbits and marriage, but Thorin would give him a look that made his toes curl and his blood burn, and Bilbo would find himself quite overwhelmed and bustled off to bed. He’d blush, Thorin would smoulder, and things would go on just the way they were meant to.

 

This was the far more Hobbit-y option. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Drogo’s popped up in the back of Bilbo’s mind, pleading with him to—for once in his life—be ordinary. To let his Sentinel do the saving and sweep him off his feet. Bilbo would get to be appropriately modest, and Thorin sufficiently commanding, to the satisfaction of everyone involved. It was the practical thing, the way these sorts of stories were supposed to go for people like Bilbo. He was a Hobbit, and Hobbits were meant to be rescued by creatures made of sterner stuff than they.

 

However, Bilbo Baggins had never been particularly gifted at being a Guide. And there was no point in starting now. So that meant option two: Bilbo could take his Sentinel for his own and stand beside him, damn the political consequences.

 

Bilbo wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but from one moment to the next he broke free of Dwalin’s grip and found himself between Thrór and Fili. He glowered at the dumbfounded King and peeled his thick fingers away from Kili’s chest, tugging the child free of his great-grandfather and pushing him back to his brother. Then, with lips pursed in derision, Bilbo turned his back on the King Under the Mountain and dropped to his knees before the children. The room had stilled at Bilbo’s entrance, and went stark silent at the affront inherent in turning his back on the King.

 

Bilbo tugged a sobbing Kili to chest and touched a soft palm to Fili’s cheek, running a tender thumb along the reddening print. “My dear, sweet boy.” Fili let his lip start to tremble and pressed his face against Bilbo’s collar, trying to keep people from seeing his tears. Kili wrapped an arm around his brother and pulled him in close, the three of them wrapped up in a single hug. Bilbo whispered endearments to the boys, pressing kisses to their temples and telling them how adored they were.

 

A hand seized Bilbo by the back of the neck and started to wrench him away, but was interrupted by the swish of a blade being unsheathed. The hand unclenched, but stayed on Bilbo’s skin like a threat. The boys felt the tension in the room mount, and they peered over Bilbo’s shoulder. Judging by their wide eyes, it was something Bilbo should see as well. So he gave a delicate twist to find that the hand on his neck was Thrór’s, and the blade was clenched in Throin’s fist, and pressed to Thrór’s throat.

 

If Bilbo had thought the hall was silent before, that was nothing compared to the painful stillness of now.

 

Thrór tried to rear back, but Thorin forced him to stay close. “Have you lost your mind?” the King hissed.

 

“No Grandfather, if anything, I believe I’ve finally found it.”

 

Thrór released Bilbo to shove aside Thorin’s hand, but the moment he broke contact with the Hobbit, Thorin grabbed the elder Dwarf and ripped him away from the trio. Thorin kept himself between Thrór and the others, his knife still at the King’s jugular. Thrór tried to throw him off, but in fight between a grandfather who spent all his time staring at gold and a battle-hardened grandson, the grandson was going to win. With a few deflected blows, Thorin had Thrór on the ground, and no Dwarf in the kingdom interfered.

 

“Guards! Get him off me!” Thrór spat.

 

Whatever the guards might have done otherwise, Dwalin and Frerin stepped up to flank Thorin, hammers and axes drawn. The warriors of Erebor were not fools, and they knew who was the best among them. Each and every guard held their hands out to the side, away from whatever weapons they might have hidden on their person. For the residents of Erebor, this was now a family matter, not a political one.

 

Bilbo had a moment of pride in Thorin’s circle of Dwarves, but then he caught sight of Thorin’s focus. Bilbo’s Sentinel was watching the throne, where Tháin still sat. Thorin looked to his father, expecting the Dwarf to stand up for his children, for his grandchildren, against the madness of his own father. Instead, Tháin flinched away from the penetrating gaze of his son. The Heir Apparent slouched back in his seat and stared off to the side, unable to speak for either side of his family.

 

According to the Elves, Thráin had been a poor replica of himself for years, but pain still flashed across Thorin’s features when his father failed him yet again. Bilbo pressed another kiss to Kili’s tangles before he reached out his hand and gripped Thorin’s calf. It wasn’t the skin-to-skin contact that Bilbo wanted, but the heat of his palm still managed to seep through Thorin’s trousers. There was that tingle of connection that hummed between them, and Thorin brushed off his disappointment with his father in favor of nurturing the connection with his Guide.

 

When he realized that no one was coming to his rescue, Thrór hissed, “I will have you disinherited for this, Thorin! This is treason!”

 

“You laid a hand on my _Duninel_ in anger. King or pauper, there is no Dwarf worthy of the name who would condemn me for stopping you.” Bilbo tried to ignore the gasps at Thorin’s announcement.

 

“He is a _Halfling_.”

 

“Hobbit,” Thorin corrected. “His people are called Hobbits, and he is my _Dunin_ and shall be Consort Under the Mountain. And despite my love for you grandfather, if you go on like this, he will take the title sooner rather than later.”

 

The room was filled with Lords, both native and foreign. Some of the Dwarves were beloved allies of the house of Durin, and they brimmed with pride at Thorin’s actions. But there were others, Dwarves who Thrór had brought to the mountain simply for the gold they might provide, and those who had spent decades whispering naught but the love of gold in Thrór’s ear, and they looked furious.

 

The bald fellow who had shouted loudest when Fili and Kili arrived, puffed up the same color red as his waist-long beard. But before he could voice his objections, the same red-haired Dwarrowdam from yesterday rested a stern hand on his shoulder. She was slightly less jeweled today, though Bilbo assumed what one wore when they anticipated bonding and all that came with it would be different than what you wore to make nice with a King. Today she was done up in green and white, like the first blush of new spring, and Bilbo fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Despite her attempt to be the personification of Erebor’s new birth, the lass still bared enough décolletage that if she leaned forward Bilbo thought she might spill right out of her dress. (He spared a moment to admit that wasn’t quite fair of him, but then the Dwarrowdam made her way towards Thorin with a deliberate roll of her hips, and Bilbo decided that he didn’t care.)

 

“Thorin, you’re not making any sense.” She prodded him with her low, soulful voice. “King Thrór was just trying to protect all of you.” Bilbo saw the logic in that, there was no reason for Thrór to want to hurt one of his heirs. “Smaug has been out of the sky less than a month. To have his beloved great-grandsons come into the room screaming for you must have aroused a terrible belief that something else had happened.” Kili curled against Bilbo, but judging by the red state of ears, it was more out of shame than heartbreak. Shame for behaving in such a way when everyone was still on edge.

 

Fili though, Fili looked up at Bilbo with tear tracks framing the rapidly forming bruise across his cheek. He waivered, like sitting upright was too much for him to bear, and Bilbo noticed his eyes. The storm-blue of Durin’s line was clouded over, like thought was too much to ask of the boy. He slipped between a blush of embarrassment and a flush of anger, his lips open to shout something, but he couldn’t seem to remember the words.

 

There was something wrong with that, something strange about Fili not having just the right words to say. It was like a blanket had settled over his thoughts, muffling them in something warm and soft.

 

No, not that. Bilbo prodded at the covering and it reminded him of a blanket taken from the line too soon. The sun’s warmth was enough to distract you for a moment, but soon enough the damp of the blanket sunk into your skin and nothing but a hot bath would bring back your warmth.

 

Bilbo looked up, and beyond the wet blanket, concealed from his thoughts, the female Dwarf had set her hands on Thorin’s cheeks. She forced his eyes to her while she murmured gentle words about how a _Shomakhâl_ could be overwhelmed when they first came into their gifts, and she couldn’t blame him for being swept up in this strange foreign Guide while she took so long to come to him. But she was here now, and they could be together.

 

The eyes of the whole room were on her, every person nodding along with her words to Thorin, silently wishing that he would sweep her into a kiss so that they might have their happy ending. Frerin and Dwalin had strange, twisted expressions, like they had bitten in to something bitter but weren’t quite sure what to do about it. Fili fought his way through several rapid blinks, trying to throw off the Guide influence and vent some of his Durin temper on her.

 

Bilbo shifted Kili off his lap and into Fili’s arms. He brushed his hand down over Fili’s eyes, slicking aside the Dwarrowdam’s mental touch like it was water clinging to his windows. Fili shuddered, and blinked open his eyes like he’d been caught oversleeping. Bilbo gave a gentle push to the boys, sending them over to Frerin so that he might protect them from what Bilbo was about to do.

 

Bilbo didn’t notice it, but from the moment he met eyes with Fili, the Dwarves began to shake off the Dwarrowdam’s touch. One by one they turned from her to Bilbo, watching him comfort the children before rising to his feet.

 

Bilbo straightened his admittedly rumpled vest and strode over to the Guide who was touching his Sentinel. Bilbo stepped up behind her and put his fists on his hips and glowered at the back of her head, just waiting.

 

Bilbo didn’t have to know much about the way these mercenary Guides worked to know precisely what this Dwarrowdam was doing. Every time the Sackville-Bagginses came to town his mother’s Guide did his best to get a hand on Belladonna and bond them, whether she wanted it or not. Bilbo had asked his mother once why she even let the annoying fellow into Hobbiton at all when everyone knew what he was there for. She had laughed and said it amused her to watch him keep trying when he’d never be able to force a bond on her, no matter what he did.

 

And there his mother had cut straight to what really had Bilbo worried. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d been terrified that some day those Sackville-Bagginses would manage to bring his mother and her Guide together, and his parents would never be the same.

 

Belladonna had given him that smile that meant she knew exactly what was going on in Bilbo’s head. She’d pulled him into her lap and pressed his hand high to the left side of her chest. “You feel that, my little love?”

 

He nodded in certainty. “It’s your heartbeat.”

 

“It is indeed, and my heart beats in time with your father’s. It does that because there’s a bit of ribbon that connects my heart to his, keeping him forever with me, and me with him. And when the Sackville-Bagginses try to touch my heart, all they can touch is the ribbon, because your father keeps them well and truly out.”

 

Bilbo was no longer the Hobbitling who believed in bits of ribbon wrapped around a person’s insides, but he understood better what his mother had been trying to tell him. There was a bit of him that had always been with Thorin, and a bit of Thorin that had always been with him, protecting one another. So when that Dwarrodam tried to slip her way into Thorin’s mind and bond them together before Thorin realized what she was doing, she would find resistance. Furious Hobbit resistance.

 

Bilbo could feel her lips tick up in pleasure, and feel the Dwarves around him want to warn Bilbo that something was about to happen, something that the little Hobbit could not undo.

 

However, instead of whatever the Dwarves had been expecting, the Dwarrowdam ripped away from Thorin with a scream. Bilbo absolutely did not stick out his foot for the lass to trip over; that would’ve been far beneath a Baggins of his standing. But trip she did, and land square and undignified on her rump.

 

Bilbo stepped around the no longer quite so pristine Dwarrowdam and put himself in between her and Thorin. Bilbo’s Sentinel had the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, trying to right out his brain after having her rifling around in there. Bilbo leaned against Thorin, his back pressed to Thorin’s chest to offer an extra bit of comfort. The female collected herself with far less grace but a bit more speed than Thorin, and glowered up at the Hobbit in her way.

 

Bilbo would have none of that, and crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to be intimidated by a Dwarrowdam who had been caught cheating. “I don’t know how things work among Dwarves, but among my people, it’s bad manners to try and steal another Guide’s bonded Sentinel.”  


	12. Chapter 12

There was a moment there where Bilbo thought the Dwarrowdam was going to leap to her feet and slap him right in the face. But Thorin pressed his nose to the juncture at Bilbo’s neck, and the Hobbit decided it was a fair trade.

 

She all but slithered to her feet, managing to make it look like the whole sprawling backwards thing had been her decision in the first place. She glanced out at the crowd to gauge their reactions, and there was a flicker of fury across her face when she realized that most of them were looking at her with distrust. There were enough people who were simply confused, and those who were there for the money, that she had a chance to swing this whole fight to her favor. She raised her chin and glowered down at Bilbo like he was a bug she was about to squish. “You are not his bonded _Dunin_.”

 

Bilbo rocked back and forth on his heels, like he was amused by the whole thing. “I am actually. I am his _Dunin_ and he is my Shoma? Is that the word you use?” Bilbo looked up at Thorin, who he could tell was rapidly putting together everything he’d missed while under the Dwarrowdam’s influence.

 

Thorin looked down at him and blinked through the last of the haze, “ _Shomakhâl_ , my Bilbo.”

 

“Sho- Shoma- you know, let’s stick with Sentinel until I get a better grasp on your mother tongue.”

 

With a lecherous grin Thorin teased, “There are many things my tongue would be delighted to teach you.” Thorin took too much joy out of that ‘many’ for him to mean just kissing, but Bilbo refused to display his ignorance in front of the Dwarves.

 

“Thorin, you need to think for a moment.” The Dwarrowdam unleashed the same tone as before, sending it echoing around the chamber.

 

“Oh, stop it!” Bilbo shouted, shattering the tendrils she had weaving through the spectator’s thoughts. “Obviously I’m not going to let you stick your fingers in their minds and muggy things up just so you can have your way. If you’ve decided that I’m really a sneak of a Guide trying to force Thorin into a bond then lets have a rational discussion about this like civilized grownups. If you keep going on like this it just makes you look silly. Which, you are silly, but I’d prefer it if you’d stop making me pull you out of people’s heads. It’s bothersome, for them and for me.”

 

The whole room went still, imagining some battle to death between opposing Guides, but Frerin’s giggling put a stop to that. The laughter went from Frerin, to the boys, to those few Dwarves who knew him well enough to be in on the joke. Thorin felt Bilbo stiffening in concern and slipped an arm around Bilbo’s chest, pulling him close. “Sorry, sorry,” Frerin gasped. “It’s just,” he snorted out another laugh. “You just got scolded by a Hobbit! Years you’ve been telling everybody how you were going to be Queen of Erebor, scaring off anyone Thorin showed an interest in and telling people that you’re engaged. And when anybody tried to correct you, you _Dunin_ -ed them straight into a headache until they stopped. And now,” he giggled again, “you just got put in your place by a _Hobbit_ who didn’t even know who Thorin was until yesterday.”

 

The Dwarrowdam turned a vicious shade of purple that clashed terribly with her hair. Bilbo felt the need to point out, “I knew full well who Thorin Dragonslayer was, I just hadn’t made the connection that he was my Sentinel.”

 

“You more than didn’t make the connection. We Dwarves and half the Elves spent the whole of our ride to Erebor trying to tell you he was your _Shomakhâl_ without actually using the words, and you didn’t get a speck of it.”

 

“And you believe this creature is your _Dunin_?” The Dwarrodam shouted, pulling all the attention right back where she believed it belonged, on her. “He is no match for you!”

 

“Considering that you’ve never actually seen either Thorin or I make use of our gifts, how would you know who is a match for who?” Bilbo pointed out.

 

The Dwarrowdam leered forward. “At least I knew who Thorin was before he slew Smaug. I loved him when he was nothing but—”

 

“A prince?” Bilbo snorted. He felt Thorin stiffen in shock behind him, and patted the Dwarf on his sleeve. Bilbo had no trouble imagining that Thorin had spent his whole life completely unaware that this Dwarrowdam fancied herself in love with him.

 

She bristled at the accusation that she wanted Thorin for any reason other than loving him. Everyone knew it wasn’t true, but they were polite enough to pretend otherwise. Bilbo however, had long since left behind politeness and gone straight into Baggins viciousness. She put on an expression of affronted dignity, playing to the crowd, both in the room and watching from the hall. But before she had the chance to proclaim her undying love all over again, Bilbo interrupted, “What’s Thorin’s favorite material to forge with?”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“What’s Thorin’s favorite material to forge with?” Bilbo prodded again.

 

She resolutely did not sputter, but she didn’t know the answer either. “I don’t see how that’s—”

 

“Silver. He prefers forging with silver over all the other metals and gems in Erebor. Partly because of the goldlust that he sees destroying his father and grandfather, but mostly because when he was young he could pretend he was making a star. A…” Bilbo looked to Thorin, puzzling over the word for a moment, “A Silmaril he could give back to the Elves so his people would stop hating them quite so much.”

 

“The Elves betrayed their oaths to the Dwarves of Nogrod, the same way Thranduil betrayed his oaths to King Thrór,” the Dwarrowdan spat, weaving her disgust with Elves throughout the words.

 

Bilbo turned back to her with a glower. He narrowed his eyes and imagined the Dwarrowdam had Lobelia sitting on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. Just like Bilbo maintained the wall between his mind and everyone else’s, he put up a wall around hers. From one breath to the next every trace of her touch dropped away, locked up behind the cage Bilbo had put around her gifts. “I told you to stop doing that. I’m trying to explain to you what makes me Thorin’s Guide and all you’re doing is trying to cheat.”

 

She battered ineffectually against the shield, and when that didn’t work, she resorted to words. (Of course, neither she nor Bilbo noticed that dumbfounded stares he was getting from every Guide in the room.) “You are a foul creature invading in matters that have been agreed upon before you were ever born.”

 

“I am indeed. I’m also the reason Thorin likes Elves, which I suppose you’ll consider another reason to hate me.”

 

“What disgusting lies have you been telling my grandson to twist his heart away from his loyalty to his people?” Thrór demanded, ignoring the knife-to-throat incident of a few minutes ago.

 

“Not a one. However, every time my mother told me a new story about the Elves I made sure to pass it on the Thorin. He was terribly curious about the tall, pointy-eared fellows that he was supposed to hate, and he wanted to understand why I didn’t.”

 

Thrór moved to demand something else, but Bilbo pressed on. “I also know that Thorin doesn’t like to go into the throne room because the Arkenstone makes him uncomfortable. He can’t bring himself to miss his mother because, in his heart, he’s glad she didn’t live to see his father turn out like he has. And sometimes, he wonders if he should abdicate so Erebor will no longer be ruled by Dwarves with the gold madness, because he’s terrified that someday it will take him too.” Bilbo turned to the Dwarrowdam who was gaping at him. “Did you know any of that?”

 

She quickly got herself under control. “More importantly, I want to know how _you_ knew any of that. Have you been spying on Thorin?”

 

The insinuation was far less powerful than it might have been if she’d backed it up with her gift for persuasion. As it was, most of the Dwarves were giving her looks like, ‘Really? That’s the best you can do?’ Bilbo shared an eye roll with the crowd and replied, “If by ‘spying’ you mean ‘sharing dreams’ then yes, I’ve been spying.”

 

“How do you do that?” Kili demanded, all but spilling over his brother’s shoulder in a rush to know how he’d gone all these years without actually sharing a dream with anyone.

 

Bilbo grinned at the boy’s easy acceptance. “I honestly don’t know. And it doesn’t make a speck of sense when you think that Thorin and I have been sharing dreams since we both were small, and when Thorin was small, I wasn’t born. But we’ve been together all along, even when we weren’t in the same place, or, well… alive.”

 

 “Your One is, and always shall be, your One,” a female voice interrupted. Dís had been silently hovering in the crowd near the dais, letting all the events unfold as they may and waiting until she was needed. Since Bilbo had handled himself quite admirably by dropping unknown and completely unprecedented information on all their heads, she had not yet needed to chime in. Bilbo was still handling things, but now Dís decided it was time to be done. He’d made his point, and every Dwarf who might be persuaded had been, now looking at Bilbo with something close to glee.

 

Bilbo nodded and turned back to Kili. “Conversations is too strong a word, though I suppose now that we’ve both come into our gifts we might be capable of it. But for the most part it was nothing more than images and emotions that we managed to piece together into a story.”

 

“Tell me this, _Dunin_ Baggins, how shall I know that you are my brother’s One?” Dís began a slow stroll down the length of the room, forcing the inhabitants to wonder why, after all this information, she didn’t yet believe. Bilbo recognized the tactic as one his Grandmother Took liked to pull. Rather than arguing a point, she’d let a person talk themselves into it. If Dís stood up and proclaimed that Bilbo was Thorin’s Guide, there were some who would still doubt, but if she pretended to doubt, then those who still needed convincing might be brought along with her.

 

“Frerin took one look at you and knew you were our brother’s Guide. He said that every last Dwarrow and Dwarrowdam our brother had pursued had only been a pale imitation of you. But tell me, how am I to know that you are not simply to my brother’s taste, that you are truly the other half of his soul.”

 

Bilbo understood what Dís was trying to do, but that didn’t mean he was going to sit and take the implication that he and Thorin were anything less than what they really were. “You mean, other than Thorin saying I’m his Guide?”

 

She smirked. “Yes, other than that. Something that only the Dwarves of Erebor would know about their prince. And what someone who shared his dreams might know.”

 

Bilbo rather thought that the long list of things he’d pointed out to the red-headed Dwarrowdam who currently looked like she wanted to string Bilbo up by his own tongue were sufficient example enough. But instead he dropped his hands into his pockets and ‘hummed’ for a moment. “I’m not entirely sure what sort of information you’re looking for, but I suppose you might like to know that there’s a lavender bush outside my window.” At that, he could tell the difference between Ereborean Dwarves and the foreigners. The locals paused, while everyone else couldn’t imagine what a flower had to do with anything.

 

Bilbo though, he had a bit of a grin. “The scent comes through my open windows at night, and it colors my dreams.”

 

Among Erebor’s best kept secrets was Prince Thorin’s fondness for lavender. Not any old flower, but for lavender in particular. It was a shame that no one could explain, and no one could quite bring themselves to deride. Now that Thorin had come in to his gifts, everyone assumed that all along his senses had wanted the lavender to help him deal with the smells of the mountain. (Everyone except for Thrór. The old King had always insisted that his Dwarves stop bringing such a foul, Elven thing into his mountain, but the herbalists had set up a rotating schedule so that Thorin could always have a bundle of blossoms tucked away in his private rooms.)

 

Bilbo gave an innocent rock back on his heels. “Is that a rare enough piece of information for you, princess? Because if it gets any more personal than that, then Thorin might never forgive either one of us.”  

 

Dís’s lips quirked up in the barest hint of smile before she smoothed out her expression to the blank mask she seemed to prefer for public. That almost-smile alone was probably enough to sway over to Bilbo’s side even the fiercest of doubters. Well, that smile, plus the way Thorin couldn’t seem to keep his hand off Bilbo’s hip. (And the way Bilbo blushed anew every time Thorin’s thumb snuck under his vest, pressing heat through the thin muslin of Bilbo’s shirt to the sensitive skin at the small of his back. That might’ve done some of the convincing.) 

 

“One final question, _Dunin_ Baggins. If you shared dreams with Thorin, how did you not know who he was when Frerin and his companions spoke of him?”

Bilbo glanced back at Thorin with a raised eyebrow, wondering if perhaps Thorin would like him to lie. Instead, for the first time in the collected memory of Erebor, Thorin blushed. “I might not have mentioned it.”

 

“Might not have mentioned, what?” Dís demanded.

 

“Being a prince.” Bilbo snickered. “Years of dreams we chatted through, and it never once crossed your brother’s mind to mention anything about royalty.”

 

“I have never heard anything that sounded more like Thorin in my life,” Frerin laughed. “He always did get satisfaction out of holding off on his identity until the last, possible moment for dramatic effect.”

 

Had Frerin been in range, Bilbo was certain Thorin would’ve cuffed him upside the head. But as he wasn’t, the elder brother was forced to rely on a glower that he couldn’t quite manage with his citizens around him and smiling like they were thrilled with every moment of this conversation. Already Bilbo could see more and more people piling outside the door, could hear them lining the hall and passing down the word that Thorin Oakenshield had claimed his One, his Guide had come for him all the way from the kindly West to create their bond. The whole affair was really quite embarrassing, but Thorin’s smile couldn’t have been any brighter if they were looking at one another over their fasted hands under the Party Tree. And that smile did things to Bilbo. In fact, there was very little that Bilbo would not do to encourage it. So instead of cowering behind Thorin until these people stopped looking at him, Bilbo put on his most Tookish smile and shared a grin with the common Dwarves beside the door.

 

Apparently that was the last straw for Thrór. “Under no circumstances will I grant my consent for this union!”

 

Bilbo bit back the urge to point out that he was a fully-grown, adult Hobbit, and needed no one’s permission to do anything. And judging by how Thorin had been running the kingdom for years, he was his own Dwarf, capable of making his own decisions. Thorin had a bit more a tempestuous reaction, and Bilbo could feel him tensing up to yell. Dís gave her brother a glower that could’ve melted the flesh right off his face, reminding him that if he kept his big mouth shut, she could handle this.

 

“But _Udad_ , they are already soulbound. To keep them apart would be impossible.”

 

“My grandson has been promised to Dain’s daughter since her birth! I will not go back on my word.”

 

“You will have to, _Udad_. I have made no promises to Hagaa, and sworn my oaths of love and fealty to Bilbo. I will not betray the vows I made for myself.” Dís gave Thorin a look that demanded to know if that announcement was really necessary, but judging by the resultant coos coming from the common Dwarves while they passed Thorin’s words down the hall, it didn’t do any damage.

 

“Perhaps,” Frerin interrupted with a booming voice and bright smile, “we ought to continue this conversation in our chambers. I think we’ve subjected the people of Erebor to enough family conversation today and they would all like to get back to their lives.”

 

Judging by their expressions that wasn’t true in the slightest, but Frerin was almost impossible to disagree with. He shouldered past the red-head, Hagaa apparently, and stepped up to his brother with his nephews trailing behind. “Come now, let us be off.” He tossed both nephews in Thorin’s arms and wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder to drag him out of the hall. Bilbo thought it was a younger brother poking away at his older brother, but Thorin didn’t seem bothered. In fact, he was taking deep breaths and keeping all his attention on his nephews rambling away.

 

Frerin kept his smile in place while he leaned in close to whisper, “I shouldn’t have mentioned ‘chambers.’”

 

“Whyever not?”

 

“Thorin told you about the physical aspects of Dwarven bonding, did he not?”

 

“He did.” Bilbo nodded, still unsure.

 

“It’s difficult for a Dwarf to stay away from their One once they’ve found them. Add to that that you are his _Dunin_ , and that Thorin is barely able to keep ahold of his senses at any given moment, which means all his senses are trained on you to keep him in balance, and not completing the bond with you has prove nto be one of the more difficult things Thorin has ever done in his life.”

 

Frerin gave a jaunty wave to the people that they passed, the Hobbit and Dwarf following behind Thorin like the other Dwarf wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. Behind him was Dís, arm in arm with Thrór, while Thráin trailed along behind. “But what do chambers—”

 

Frerin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Think about it, Bilbo.” He supposed Dwarven chambers were roughly the same as his own Hobbit-hole, so that meant they were for reading, eating, sleeping… ah. Bilbo blushed a violent scarlet and Frerin grinned. “There you go. Needless to say, I’ll be keeping my nephews in between you and Throin until he no longer feels like he’d be taking advantage of an innocent.”

 

Bilbo Baggins was many things, and innocent had not been among them for a very long time, and he told Frerin so. That Thorin stumbled to a stop and shuddered before he got himself to move forward again was just a bonus.


	13. Chapter 13

Bilbo wondered what role Thorin filled amongst the Durin siblings when he wasn’t the one being fussed over. Dís slammed the door in Dain’s face and bustled her father and grandfather into empty chairs beside the fire, while Frerin pushed Thorin onto a sofa with his nephews curled up beside him. Then he put Bilbo in a chair on the opposite side of the room from Thorin and plopped down on the chair’s arm as a last line of defense.

 

Thorin took the chance to glower at his brother while Thrór settled himself back into the eprfect position for yelling. “This whole mess is nothing but insanity!” Bilbo was rather proud of his Dwarves for holding their tongues and not replying to the obvious opening, pointing out that Thrór was not one who should be deriding other people for their ‘insane’ behavior. “How could a Hobbit be right for my heir!”

 

In her most patient of tones, Dís replied, “ _Udad_ , if I may remind you that you and _Adad_ chose my husband.”

 

“Mili was a perfectly respectable Lord from the Iron Hills—”

 

“Who betrayed me by taking another Dwarrowdam to his bed, _Udad_. The Dam was stupid enough to sleep with my husband but still clever enough to take the herbs she needed to keep from getting pregnant, which I doubt Hagaa would be.”

 

Thrór sputtered at the low turn the conversation had taken, but that didn’t stop Dís. “If anything, I would imagine that Hagaa would get herself pregnant by one of her father’s own Lords and try to pass off the child as Thorin’s. Then if she got caught, she’d declare that she has just as much of Durin’s blood as Thorin, so who cared, and the coup would be complete.”

 

“Dain is not trying to bring about a coup!” Thrór shouted, spittle flying in his rage. 

“How can you be sure, _Udad_? After all, what Dwarf would turn down the chance to share in some of the glory of Erebor?” Ah, and there it was. Dís had led Thrór round in circles until she found the attack she was looking for. Thrór had placed his trust in Dain, even to the exclusion of his own kin, and to hear it proposed that it all had been a lie to curry favor was shocking. “Dain might have untold motivations for desiring this marriage, and all of them are to turn a profit. But Thorin, Thorin only has one motivation for wanting his Hobbit.”

 

Before Thrór could regroup, there was a sharp knock on the door and Dís allowed in Balin, Dwalin, Adalgrim, and Drogo. “ _Udad, Adad,_ allow me to present Drogo Baggins and Adalgrim Took, close kinsmen of _Dunin_ Baggins.” Thráin gave them a polite nod, while Thrór couldn’t keep his sneer to himself.

 

Adalgrim looked half a beat away from snapping back something crass, but Drogo elbowed him in the ribs. Instead of the stern talking-to that Drogo no doubt wanted to give Thrór for treating new relatives in so terrible a manner, Drogo sunk into a truly un-Hobbit-like bow. “Hail, Thrór, son of Dáin, son of Náin, King Under the Mountain. I am Drogo, son of Fosco, of the High House of Baggins. This is Adalgrim, son of Hildigrim, son of Gerontius ‘The Old,’ Heir Apparent to the Thain of the Shire, and the leader of our people.” Drogo gave Adalgrim another harsh jab, forcing the other Hobbit to plaster on a pleasant smile and dip into a bow.

 

“Through all the commotion, I do not believe you have had the chance to be properly introduced to our cousin, Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo may have stared at Drogo in shock for a moment longer than appropriate, but with a glare Drogo managed to get Bilbo out of his chair and summon him across the room.

 

With what Bilbo had seen of Thrór he was unwilling to bow, but he did give a nod that he thought was sufficiently polite. It pained Drogo not be able to roll his eyes, Bilbo could tell. “May I present my cousin, Bilbo, son of Bungo, son of Mungo, Lord of Hobbiton and of the High House of Baggins. His mother, was Belladonna Took, eldest of the daughters of Gerontius Took, Thain of the Shire, and most beloved of his children.”

 

Thrór was eyeing Bilbo like after that long list of titles he might have finally found something worthwhile in his grandson’s Guide. Drogo, of course, was not one to quit until the job was done. “We cannot tell you how pleased both our houses are that Bilbo has forged a bond with your Thorin. Bilbo’s own mother was the strongest Sentinel the Shire has ever seen, and her son is our most powerful Guide. We are endlessly grateful that you have a Sentinel who can match him.”

 

Thrór looked pleased that he was getting the most powerful Guide from another kingdom (which the Shire wasn’t, but Bilbo suspected that Drogo was going to keep calling himself a Lord until after Bilbo was married). However, he was not happy with the thought of his heir taking up with a foreigner, no matter how well-birthed that foreigner might be. Though it seemed Drogo had a solution for that too. “Of course, I have also been given permission to begin trade negotiations with your kingdom on behalf of the Shire, as a showing a future good relations between our people.”

 

Thrór narrowed his eyes. “And what would the Shire have to trade with Erebor?”

 

Drogo didn’t bother demuring. “We are well skilled in herb-lore, woodworking, and our crop yields are nearly triple that of Dale.”

 

That got Thrór’s attention, not for all the good it might do his people to have more food, but for the pleasure of freeing himself from what he considered the grasping hands of Men. “And you would enter into a trade agreement with us?”

 

“I have been given leeway to begin negotiations, but I cannot consent to anything until after I have consulted with the Thain, and of course, until after I am certain that the alliance between our two peoples has been cemented through the marriage between Thorin and Bilbo. We Hdon’t trade with just anyone, you know.”

 

Once upon a time Thrór had been a good king, and somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he was being manipulated by the Hobbit before him. But it had been decades since he’d last given that little voice any credence. Instead he gave Drogo a sharp nod, and said Thorin would handle the negotiations as part of the dowry discussions. In the meantime, Thrór would be in the vault. Before he left, Balin slipped the old King a hastily drafted document to sign, guaranteeing his agreement to the marriage, then let Thrór and a silent Thráin trail out of the room to find their way back to their true family: the gold.

 

They all sat in silence for a moment before Frerin puffed out, “Well, that went better than I was expecting.”

 

Adalgrim dissolved into a puddle of giggles, and everyone else followed soon after. Eventually Bilbo managed to get out, “What was all that?”

 

Drogo shrugged. “When you left the room, Elrond figured that we’d be meeting Thrór sooner rather than later and we ought to know how to approach him to make the right kind of impression.”

 

“The ‘right’ impression, no attempt at a _good_ impression?” Bilbo teased.

 

Drogo puffed up in mock offense. “One does not simply walk up to the King of the Dwarves and say hello. You have to go about these things in a proper kind of manner.”

 

The Hobbits giggled again, and from a spot wedged behind a massive side table, Dwalin interjected, “I don’t give two hoots that the lad donned a whole different personality, he managed to get the King to agree to you marrying someone without a speck of gold to offer him, and that’s something to drink to.” Dwalin popped up with a bottle of ale in his hand. Frerin went to slip off Bilbo’s armrest to gather the goblets they had stashed around the room to go with their emergency ale, but Thorin twitched at the open opportunity and Frerin settled back down to let Balin handle it.

 

After introductions all around, Frerin tugged Bilbo back to the chair so that Throin’s blood pressure could start going down. Bilbo rolled his eyes, but went. “I have no idea why I let you push me around like you do. I was fond of you until I found out that apparently you’ve spent all this time thinking I hadn’t one speck of common sense between my ears.”

 

“Now, don’t be like that Bilbo. I think you’re plenty clever.”

 

Bilbo snorted, “That’s a lie and you know it. The lot of you must’ve thought me quite daft with all this poking and prodding going on and me not catching a word of it. I still don’t understand why in Middle-earth one of you didn’t just say something, things would’ve been cleared up immediately.”

 

“We thought it would be best—“

 

“That I roam into the Dwarf kingdom unprepared? What if I had stumbled across Thorin in a hallway? Or shook his hand in hello in front of the whole court? Do you have any idea what you Dwarves _do_ when you bond?”

 

Adalgrim giggled while Drogo blushed and Thorin thumped his head back against the sofa with a groan. The Dwarves laughed at Thorin’s pain to be better than his instincts. “Honestly, I didn’t anticipate that being a problem.” Frerin grinned.

 

“Well then, you don’t know anything about Hobbits, because my Grandmother Baggins is likely to turn up and geld Thorin if he touches me before the wedding.”

 

“Did you know that in the eyes of Dwarves you are already as good as married, _Dunin_ Baggins?” Dís pointed out. In the teasing she had moved to sit beside Thorin, gathering her sons into her arms and checking them over for any wounds left over from their grandfather.

 

“I was, milady. Your brother told me. And in truth, it is the same for Hobbits. Well, at least for Tooks. Bagginses consider few things to be official unless there’s paperwork involved.”

 

“You should know that my brother is always violently honest, _Dunin_. He does not care what people think of him, only that they be fully informed. The people consider it a blessing after so many centuries with my forefathers, and Thorin’s soldiers value a commander they can trust. For you, it means that when he says that in his heart he is already bound to you, you can trust that he means it.”

 

The boys wrapped their mother in a hug, knowing full well that she was speaking from experience with her own husband. “Now boys, none of that.”

 

“I’d hug you myself if I didn’t think you’d smack me for it,” Adalgrim corrected, already well into his cups. “As it is, I think that if your brother is already married to Bilbo, it’s probably time that you start calling him by his name rather than this _Dunin_ business.”

 

The Dwarves held their breath until Dís gave Adalgrim the smallest of smiles. “Are Hobbits always so informal?”

 

“Tooks yes, Bagginses no.”

 

“That familial distinction keeps appearing, it must be terribly important.” Bilbo couldn’t tell if she meant that seriously or not, but Adalgrim took it that way.

 

“Oh, that it is. Bagginseses are terribly stuffy creatures, completely devoted to respectability. While we Tooks love nothing so well as an adventure. Well, adventure and supper. It’s a fairly even tie.”

 

Drogo slipped the goblet out of Adalgrim’s fingers and took a long sniff of the drink. “What in the world do you have in here?” he demanded.

 

Dwalin took a sniff of his own. “It _was_ ale, though I’ve forgotten quite how long we’ve had that bottle stashed away. It might be a bit stronger now.”

 

Drogo dared to take a sip, and coughed back, “You think?”

 

“Are Hobbits not great drinkers?” Balin teased, taking the mug from Drogo’s fingers and downing it all in one motion.

 

“We’re excellent drinkers, I’ll have you know,” Drogo defended. Adalgrim chose that moment to topple over while reaching for the bottle. “We just prefer to drink things that are meant to taste good rather than only there to get you drunk.”

 

“That’s no fun at all, laddie.”

 

Bilbo laughed at his ridiculous relatives, both old and new. Drogo began drinking in earnest, trying to salvage the Hobbit name when it came to alcohol, while Adalgrim started to giggle at nothing. Balin and Dwalin took up seats beside Drogo, encouraging the stuffy little Hobbit to get as knackered as possible, while Frerin called out encouragement from Bilbo’s side. Kili looked as though he wouldn’t be leaving his mother’s lap for the next few days, and Dís wove braids into his hair like she wouldn’t mind that at all. Fili propped himself next to Thorin, the soles of his thick boots standing on fabric that Bilbo suspected cost more than his own mother’s finest dress. Somehow the lad managed to waive his arms about emphatically while still keeping his lips pressed to Thorin’s ear. Bilbo guessed that the young fellow was telling Thorin all about the mad dash to find him, telling the tale like he’d been on the run from Wargs rather than a single Hobbit.

 

Bilbo closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting the warmth of these people run over him. They were happy and whole, and made up almost everyone in the world that Bilbo loved. There were some aunts and grandparents that he considered to be on that list, but here, tucked safely in this room, were the bulk of them. Bilbo let out a pleased hum at the burst of affection he felt in his chest, and let himself bask in this moment of peace.

 

Wrapped up in the emotions of others as he was, Bilbo didn’t notice how his how pleasure reflected back on those around him. Balin, Dwalin, Drogo, and Adalgrim slumped down in a happy pile that made them seem far more inebriated than they actually were. Fili and Kili both dissolved into puddles of incoherent giggles, while Thorin and Dis actually had smiles on their faces.

 

Frerin leaned down and poked Bilbo in the side. “Lay off, little brother, or everyone is going to thing we’ve gone and gotten drunk.”

 

“You _are_ drunk,” Bilbo murmured without pulling himself away from the joy.

 

“I haven’t had a drop, I’ll have you know. Thorin can already beat me in a fight without me making it easier on him. And yet, I feel like I’ve downed a whole barrel myself.”

 

Bilbo creaked open his eyes. “Why would you feel like that?”

 

Frerin quirked an eyebrow and made a note to get Bilbo before _Dunin_ Oín as soon as possible. If Bilbo was doing this unconsciously, Frerin couldn’t imagine what the lad might do if he was actually trained in some Dwarven skills. He nodded over to the rest of the family, pointing out their excessively happy state to Bilbo. “Not that we’re not usually a happy bunch, but there’s happy and then there’s _happy_.”

 

Bilbo took in the odd behavior of his companions and didn’t waste time pretending that he didn’t know where it came from. He slammed down his shields and the whole group shuddered at the sudden lack. Some fragment of Bilbo’s horror slipped through his mental blocks and Thorin was on his feet in a moment.

 

“What did you do?” Bilbo flinched away in mortification, only to realize the question wasn’t directed at him when Frerin answered.

 

“I just pointed out that he was cycling the emotions.” The Dwarf was up on his feet, hands raised to remind Thorin that he was unarmed. “There’s been a misunderstanding about what that meant.”

 

Thorin didn’t return to his seat. “Bilbo, is that what happened?” He never contemplated lying to the Dwarf before him, despite how much easier it might make things.

 

“I made you all happy,” Bilbo croaked, thoroughly ashamed of himself. It was behavior of the worst kind of Guide to force emotions on those who didn’t want them. It was worst than Hagaa and her twisting voice that made people agree with her.

 

“No ya didn’t, laddie,” Balin interrupted. “What were we feeling before you shared your joy with us?”

 

“Happy?”

 

“Aye, that’s right. You felt our happiness and it made you happy, so you shared your happiness, which just made us happier, and it went on like that in a circle. When Guides experience emotions too big to contain they share them with the people around them, it’s just instinct. And given your relative size, I imagine it doesn’t take much for you to need to share an emotion.” Balin gave Bilbo a teasing grin, and the Hobbit turned to Thorin for confirmation. The others might say what they must to keep him happy, but Thorin wouldn’t lie, Bilbo would feel it if he did.

 

Thorin dropped to his knees before Bilbo, grabbing the Hobbit by his hips to pull him forward to the edge of the chair. Bilbo’s squeak almost drowned out each and every Dwarf shifting for their weapons to stop Thorin if he lost control. (Well, almost every Dwarf. The boys seemed excited at the prospect that their Uncle Thorin was about to bond with Uncle Bilbo.)

 

“There is nothing wrong with you, Bilbo Baggins. If anything we should consider it a blessing that our presence alone is enough to provide you with such joy.”

 

Bilbo leaned forward, then stopped himself before he got too far. “But Guides aren’t supposed to force their emotions onto other people.”

 

“You didn’t force anything, _Duninel_. You were happy for our happiness. So happy that you could not contain it.”

 

“You’re my family.” Bilbo shrugged.

 

Thorin clenched at the word, his hands settling into a grip on the plump flesh of Bilbo’s bottom. “And I cannot tell you the joy it brings me to hear those words cross your lips. Were you to force us into anything you would know it in your heart, you would feel the revulsion that comes from hurting your family. Do you feel such?”

 

Bilbo listed forward, but kept himself from telling Thorin exactly what it was he felt like doing. “No, no revulsion here.”

 

Under other circumstances Thorin’s lips would’ve ticked up in a smile, and Bilbo would’ve watched them move. But today, Thorin didn’t grin at Bilbo’s sense of humor. Thorin slid up, closing the distance between him and Bilbo’s smart mouth. “Thorin…” Frerin warned, and Bilbo tried to stop him, he really did. But stopping involved pressing two fingers to Thorin’s face to nudge him back.

 

Thorin had warned Bilbo that one brush of skin was all it was going to take to push him over the edge. One touch and all his carefully constructed control was going to be a thing of memory.

 

Thorin’s eyes dilated until they were nothing but pools of black. He stopped himself mid-lunge, his entire body tensing to keep himself from rearing forward and taking Bilbo right here on a chair in front of his family. He buried his face in Bilbo’s stomach, breathing in the Hobbit to satisfy his need for touch, to take. He clenched his hands to keep them from wandering and Bilbo tried not to wriggle at the thought of bruises from Thorin’s wide hands wrapped around his hips. Thorin moaned at the scent of Bilbo’s arousal and curled himself tighter around the Hobbit.

 

Bilbo tried to will back his own desire while still comforting Thorin. To close off completely would send Thorin into a rage, while opening his mind like they both would’ve preferred would led to aggression of a different sort. It was up to Bilbo to calm Thorin down, which would be more than a little difficult considering all he wanted was to clear the room.

 

That was when it struck Bilbo: there was no reason to do anything but find the closest bed. They were bonded heart and soul anyway, and Thorin had had another Guide rooting around his mind this very morning. Had Bilbo not been in the room when Hagaa tried her stunt, Thorin might have been sent back to the Stones to deal with the aftermath of having her try to force a bond when one was already in place. And what’s more, Bilbo wanted it. Wanted everyone to know that this Sentinel was his. Wanted Thorin to _be_ his.

 

In the moment Bilbo leaned in to whisper to Thorin that he wanted to bond now, Thorin pressed firm lips to the space beside his ear. But Thorin stopped himself from indulging in the kisses that would have been so easy. Especially easy after Bilbo shuddered at the puff of hot breath across his skin. Bilbo all but hummed in anticipation, and Thorin murmured, “I would have us be right according to the customs of your people. I would marry you, Bilbo Baggins, before we seal our bond.”

 

Bilbo would’ve liked to say that he didn’t whine at the declaration, but he did. And Thorin couldn’t suppress a shudder at the sound. He pressed a quick kiss to the pointed tip of Bilbo’s ear and peeled back. “After… after the wedding.”

 

Bilbo followed Thorin away, unwilling to give up the touch. He could see in Thorin’s eyes that all he had to do was say the word and his noble intentions would be out the window, along with most of their clothes. Bilbo forced himself to flop back into the chair cushions and break eye contact. “After the wedding,” he murmured. “But so help me Thorin Oakenshield, if this wedding doesn’t happen soon, I will not be held responsible for my actions.” 


	14. Chapter 14

Bilbo was going to rip Hagaa up into little pieces and scatter her outside to feed the birds, just see if he didn’t.

 

It was Bilbo’s second night in Erebor and the Dwarves were going to throw him a feast (and never let it be said that Dwarves didn’t know how to put on a meal). The organizers had wanted Thorin and Bilbo alone at a high table so the people could come to them, and them alone, to offer their congratulations, but that wouldn’t help with the grand plan to wait for the wedding. (In fact, if there was one thing Bilbo could think of as more mortifying than almost having sex with Thorin in front of his family, it was almost having sex with Thorin in front of the whole, ruddy kingdom.)

 

When the organizers asked Dís and Frerin for approval, Frerin had giggled and Dís had suggested they change the seating arrangements. Despite their skin, armor, and general mass, Dwarves were not thick creatures. Without saying a word, Thorin’s siblings had just announced to the whole kingdom that Thorin and Bilbo were waiting until post-wedding, and that their prince was having a hard time with that. (It was completely beyond the realm of Dwarven comprehension that Thorin was the proper one in this situation and his small lover was the bundle of impatience, which Bilbo decided to be grateful for.)

 

So now Bilbo found himself at the head table with the whole of the line of Durin, as well as representatives of the Shire and the Valley of Rivendell. To be specific, Bilbo found two Dwarflings and Lord-ruddy-Elrond sitting in between him and his intended. (He supposed it could have been worse, it could’ve been Thorin’s grandfather.) As it was, the presence of a widowed Sentinel between them had exactly the intended effect on their libidos, and judging by Elrond’s smirk, he knew it.

 

(Or perhaps Elrond was smirking because last night he’d caught Bilbo trying to sneak out of their suite to find his way to Thorin. But that reminded Bilbo far too much of how his father used to catch him slipping out the back door to go looking for Elves, and his father’s disapproving face was not something Bilbo needed hovering at the back of his mind right now.)

 

But despite the best efforts of the organizers, they hadn’t been able to exclude Dain from the party, or the high table. It would’ve been an unpardonable slight in the current climate, tantamount to cutting Dain’s line out of the house of Durin and a declaration of war. Under normal circumstances the Dwarves said Dain was a good ally, but the chance of bonding his child with the first Sentinel born to the line of Durin in centuries had addled his brain. Bilbo was of the opinion that the thought of Thorin and Hagaa being married had addled Dain long since, but there was no need to make things worse.

 

At least, Bilbo was determined not to make things worse right up until Hagaa managed to bully her way past various and assorted Durin cousins whose sole purpose it was to keep her as far away from Thorin as possible. The cousins decided it was a bit more important to protect Bilbo from her wrath than protect Thorin from her advances.

 

Needless to say, Bilbo wasn’t pleased with that decision.

 

“If you keep staring at her like that, she’s going to burst into flames,” Frerin prodded.

 

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Bilbo grumbled.

 

Frerin unleashed his bright, full-body laugh, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile in return. Bilbo appreciated Thorin’s siblings and how they took two completely different paths to cover their brother’s back. In public, Dís was terrifying and Frerin was charming, and though they both truly were those things, they played them up for the people. Everyone felt like they could come to Frerin with a problem, and that Dís would make sure punishment was carried out. Between the two of them they encompassed the whole of the population and formed a barrier to give Thorin the space he needed to get the ruling done. In private, Dís had a wicked sense of humor and a much easier smile, while Frerin was hard to impress and liked to think seven steps ahead. After Hobbits who wore their hearts on their sleeves, it was a difficult adjustment, but one Bilbo could appreciate.

 

Bilbo ahd supposed that he was going to spend the next few days enduring the hamfisted attempts of Hagaa trying to steal Thorin, while Frerin distracted everyone from Bilbo’s fraying temper, Kili, Fili, and Adalgrim kept Bilbo and Thorin from bonding, and Dís and Drogo got the wedding arranged before Thrór changed his mind. Bilbo would do his best to stop himself from trying to sneak into Thorin’s rooms and have their own private, pre-marriage ceremony to make sure all the important details were covered. But he couldn’t guarantee it. In fact, Bilbo’s attention may have drifted away from the conversation before him to instead stare at Thorin and mull on just how he might convince Thorin that bonding now was a better choice than bonding later, wedding or no wedding.

 

(Since Thorin’s senses were all wrapped up in Bilbo, he gave the Hobbit a mighty glower for smelling like arousal at the dinner table. The few other Sentinels in Thorin’s kingdom caught the scent from Bilbo, and the looks the Prince and his Consort-to-be were sharing, and they spread the happy gossip through the people.)

 

Despite the lack of bonding and Bilbo being less than pleased that his relatives—both old and new—were quite so talented at keeping people in between him and his Sentinel, Bilbo was content. And so deliciously close to the happy ending that he had never honestly believed he might get. All those years of dreams that he had written off as nothing more than his own soul desperate for a Sentinel, and now he was days away from bonding with the fellow he’d been in love with since before he knew the meaning of the word. Yes, life was good to Bilbo Baggins.

 

At least, until the great hall doors slammed open.  

 

Nearly the whole of Erebor was there for a feast in the main hall, and those that weren’t, were the kitchen staff who slipped in and out through side doors carrying trays of food. Which meant that whoever had the gall to interrupt dinner was no Dwarf.

 

The interloper was tall—even for the standards of Men—and rangey in appearance, with hard lines carved into his face and a beard the Dwarves could be proud of. He was all done up in frayed grey robes, and had topped off the whole ensemble with a pointed hat the likes of which Bilbo had never seen. Before Bilbo had the chance to ask any questions, Thorin popped to his feet and shouted, “Gandalf!” Thorin strode down to the Man, wishing him welcome.

 

Bilbo leaned over to Frerin and murmured, “Why is Thorin so excited to see a firework maker?”

 

Frerin and the three Dwarves beside him who had pretended like they weren’t eavesdropping all night, whipped around to stare at Bilbo. “Firework maker?” Frerin croaked.

 

“Fireworks. He used to come to midsummer celebrations in the Shire and set off his fireworks for everyone to see.” When the Dwarves kept staring, Bilbo added, “They were always truly excellent fireworks if that makes a difference.”

 

“The grey wizard came to your homeland to set off _fireworks_?” Frerin demanded.

 

“Hobbits have much less need of the interference of Wizards than the other peoples of Middle-earth, Prince Frerin. They concern themselves with the small and simple things of life rather than geting caught up in the affairs of battles and kings.” The Dwarves stiffened at being caught gossiping by the wizard, but he wasn’t paying them a spec of attention. All of his focus was on Bilbo.

 

“Never in all my days did I expect to see a Hobbit in the halls of Erebor, though if any of your people would manage it, it would be the son of Belladonna Took.” Gandalf strode down the main aisle that led towards the high table, all his focus on Bilbo. Thorin didn’t growl at the attention being directed towards his Guide, but it was close. In the room’s dead center Gandalf stopped and stared back at Thorin, then cocked his head and looked back to Bilbo. He glanced back and forth between the two, watching Thorin’s glower and Bilbo’s flush, then understanding dawned. The Wizard didn’t bother holding back his snicker.

 

“I could not imagine a more perfect match to the Hobbit lad I once knew, trailing home fireflies and mud. You will be truly happy here, Bilbo.” Bilbo gave him a grateful smile, and Gandalf turned back to Thorin, “And with this little bit of information, so much more makes sense about you.”

 

Thorin refused to be charmed by the Wizard’s easy smile, though he did appreciate the acknowledgement that Bilbo would be well-suited to Erebor. “Tell me Gandalf, what brings you all the way to the Lonely Mountain?”

 

The simple pleasure melted off Gandalf’s face. “I crossed the Misty Mountains in search of Lord Elrond, and along the way I passed an army of Orcs. And they are on their way here.” Every Dwarf in the room froze.

 

Gandalf, with his several lifetimes of experience, flicked his eyes over the crowd before settling on Elrond. To Bilbo, the Elf Lord’s face looked just as placid as ever, but Gandalf saw something there that Bilbo did not. “What happened?” Gandalf asked.

 

To everyone’s eternal surprise, it wasn’t Elrond who answered in his characteristic, roundabout way, it was Kili who piped up. “An Orc chased Uncle Bilbo here.”

 

“What?” Thorin demanded, and the whole kingdom burst into a furor of whispers.

 

Kili shrunk down in his seat and looked to his brother, who explained, “That’s what we were coming to tell you about when we interrupted the meeting… but we got a little distracted.”

 

The boys were Dwarflings, so Thorin couldn’t hold them responsible for passing on such information, but he did turn his glower on Elrond. “You didn’t think this was something I should know?”

 

“In their defence,” Bilbo interrupted before things could get fraught. “Elrond has only known that you know about me for a few hours now. And there’s really no point in talking about our Orc troubles because there was no reason to believe that they would follow us all the way here.” He gave Elrond a pointed look. “In fact, I don’t think they were really following us at all.”

 

Thorin obviously didn’t trust Bilbo’s opinion in these matters and put his focus back to Elrond. “Orcs attacked the Hobbits on the plains before Rivedell, and tracked us across the Misty Mountains. They caught us just outside Mirkwood and without the interference of Thraunduil’s guard we would all have perished.”

 

Bilbo tried to object, “That doesn’t mean—”

 

“It was Azog.” Elrohir interrupted.

 

The whole room erupted in a clamor, but Gandalf’s voice rose above the din as he demanded, “Are you sure?”

 

Elrohir gave Gandalf a look that said Wizard or not, sane people didn’t question his battle tactics. “I know an Orc Sentinel when I smell one.”

 

There was something terrifying in Thorin’s expression, and Bilbo thought his Sentinel was one breath away from storming out of the mountain and going after this Azog fellow all by himself. Bilbo turned to Frerin to ask what was going on, but the young Dwarf gave a quick shake of his head and rose to his feet. Frerin shouted out orders in Khuzdul, and immediately the party broke up, some Dwarves gathering up the food, and the warriors off to prepare themselves for battle.

 

Thorin sucked in a deep breath at Frerin’s words and broke free from his rage. He held out a hand for Bilbo and waited until he had his Hobbit tucked against his side before he pressed out of the room. Behind Thorin came Frerin, Dís, Dwalin, Balin, and almost every Dwarf Bilbo had been introduced to in his time under the mountain. After them, came some of the Dwarves Bilbo recognized as Lords from that whole kerfuffle with Hagaa yesterday. Thorin murmured that they were his war council, and if a defense against the Orcs was to be mounted, they had to be involved. The whole thing seemed unnecessarily complicated to Bilbo, but he’d never defended a kingdom against an Orcish onslaught before, so he kept that opinion to himself.

 

With soft hands, Thorin settled Bilbo into a chair off the side of the council chamber, where he could observe the conversation without getting himself involved. Gandalf ignored the glowers directed his way for inviting himself to the discussion, and plopped down beside Bilbo. Dwarf or not, Bilbo gave Gandalf a glare of his own and grumbled, “I’ll have you know, that whatever you might remember about my mother, this whole business has nothing to do with me. Hobbits don’t start wars.” 

 

Gandalf had the gall to actually snort at Bilbo. “Whatever other Hobbits may or may not do has nothing at all to do with you, young Baggins. Bilbo tried to object, but the Wizard just spoke straight over the top of him. “Do you know who Azog is, Bilbo Baggins?”

 

“An Orc,” Bilbo snapped, just to be difficult.

 

Gandalf did not seem amused. “In particular, he is a pale, Gundabad Orc, the most fearsome of their Orcish breeds. He is also a Sentinel, one of the more terrible I have come across in all my years, and he has sworn that he will end the line of Durin by whatever means necessary.” All the blood drained from Bilbo’s face as the words echoed around him. “So I suppose you are correct, it’s not about you in particular, but that you can provide Azog’s most hated rival with something he will never have.”

 

Bilbo stopped paying attention to the old Wizard, and consequently missed the teasing curl of the Man’s lips around the stem of his pipe.

 

Like Thorin’s family, this Orc had taken one look and known Bilbo and Thorin belonged together. The thought of that made Bilbo’s blood freeze in his veins. The amount of attention that this creature had to be paying to Thorin to know that, without taking one look at Bilbo, without spending an ounce of time in Bilbo’s presence, was terrifying. Bilbo couldn’t imagine the kind of obsession it would take to know Thorin as well as his own kin, and Bilbo didn’t want that creature touching his Sentinel. Obsessions went poorly; they made good, upstanding people go round the bend and turn into Thrór. Bilbo could scarely imagine what kind of effect an obsession would have on an Orc.

 

Bilbo set his jaw and hopped to his feet, striding over to the bundle of Dwarves all clustered around a table at the center of the room. A map of the Lonely Mountain was laid out before them, with various metal pieces placed on the surrounding field to simulate where the different divisions of Dwarves would be placed. The whole thing vaguely reminded Bilbo of a chess set, all those pawns laid out in even rows.

 

The Dwarves were shouting amongst themselves about the various battle plans, shifting the little pieces over the table while they made their point, and another Dwarf shouting something in Khuzdul and pushing them back. Bilbo let his imagination fill in those pieces with living, breathing Dwarves by the tens and hundreds. Dwarves who would die because of the trouble Bilbo had brought to their door. But Bilbo was no shrinking violet, no wilting dough, he wouldn’t let them die for him. No, Bilbo decided that it was time to make use of all that Hobbit sense he’d planned on waiting to bring out until after the wedding. “Is there a reason that we’re having a battle over this?”

 

Every Dwarf stopped mid-word to stare at the Hobbit. Then nearly as one they turned to Thorin to let him handle it. “There is an Orc army coming for you, Bilbo. What don’t you understand about that?”

 

“I understand that just fine, thank you very much! What I don’t understand is why you don’t just bond with me so there’s nothing here for them to take?”

 

Thorin closed his eyes with a shudder. There was an outside threat and his Guide was there for the taking, and it played havoc with his carefully cultivated control. Dwalin shifted his bulk and his hammer to stand next to Bilbo, there to stop Thorin if he decided to leap over the table. Bilbo was offering himself up on a silver platter, and Thorin’s considerable patience was wearing beyond thin. (Frankly Dwalin was surprised that Thorin had even made it out of the hallway where he first found Bilbo.)

 

Balin gave Thorin a soothing pat on the shoulder and explained. “Guides are still Guides after the death of their Sentinels. Your bond with Thorin would just mean that Azog would kill Thorin and take you for his own to force a bond on you anyway.”

 

Bilbo ignored that entirely and kept his focus on Thorin. “Do you honestly believe that I could live in a world where you are not? If this Orc kills you, I will not long outlive you. Nor would I want to. You are the love of my life.”

 

The Dwarves fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable with the easy way Bilbo declared his emotions. Thorin however, he all but melted at these words crossing the lips of his Guide. Balin felt it was his responsibility to break up the happy moment and point out, “Though your subsequent death would deny Azog a Guide, Bilbo, it would still come from the death of a Dwarven King, of the _Shomakhâlel_ , the Alpha Sentinel of the East. There would be no gifted to match Azog, and that alone would be worth pursuing.”

 

“That still doesn’t explain why there needs to be a battle.”

 

“If we close the gates, Erebor would be well through the siege, but Dale would be razed long before Erebor fell.” Were Bilbo a Dwarf, Thorin would’ve thought that he simply had no regard for what happened to the Men, but Bilbo being Bilbo, Thorin assumed that Bilbo simply didn’t understand strategy.

 

“Now, I may not know much about Orcs, but from what I’m heard from Elladan and Elrohir,” he paused at Thorin’s instinctual flinch at hearing another Sentinel’s name cross his Hobbit’s lips. “Orcs are not the cleverest of creatures.”

 

Dwalin grumbled a string of Dwarven epithets about Orcs. Bilbo rolled his eyes and pressed on. “So, if they’re not that bright, what will happen if you get rid of Azog?”

 

“They will scatter without their Sentinel. Especially in the face of Thorin. But we have to have a battle in order to be rid of him,” Balin explained.

 

“Why?”

 

“What do you mean, why? You can’t kill people unless you attack them in battle. It’s not like we can sneak into his camp and assassinate him,” one of the unknown Dwarves shouted. Bilbo gave the fellow a glare, because he was not as stupid as these Dwarves seemed to think he was. “You’re not honestly suggesting that we send out a raiding party to try and kill Azog on the move, are you?”

 

“I’m not daft, thank you very much. I was just thinking…” Bilbo trailed off into uncomfortable silence, finally realizing that he had a whole room a Dwarven warriors staring at him. He stuck out his chin and decided there was no harm in trying. “Did you know that Adalgrim cheats at conkers? He likes to soak his chestnut in vinegar to harden the conker before a competition.” Collectively, the Dwarven eyebrows went up. “That’s not really the point,” Bilbo rushed, “but what he does is use a longer bit of string than everyone else. Which means when he gets a hit it does quite a bit more damage than al the other conkers.”

 

“Bilbo—”

 

Bilbo waived Thorin off. “I’ve tried to play like Adalgrim plays with the long string, but my aim is shite, so by the time I actually get a hit, my conker has already been pulverized. But you have excellent aim! So why are you playing with a short string?”

 

Thorin truly and legitimately had no idea what Bilbo was talking about, so he latched on to the one part of the sentence that made anything remotely resembling sense. “My aim is passable, but not excellent.”

 

Bilbo put his hands on his hips and gave Thorin a glare like he was the one being difficult. “Did you or did you not put an arrow through the heart of a dragon just this month?”

 

“Well, yes—”

 

“And if you doubt your aim, do you or do you not have half a dozen Elven archers in your mountain right now, including Lord Elrond, who I assume is the Alpha Sentinel of the West?”

 

“Yes, I admit Elves have excellent aim, but what do archers have to do with—”

 

“They’re the long string!” Bilbo shouted, like volume would make it clearer.

 

“Bilbo, what are you…” Thorin trailed off, and Bilbo tossed his hands in the air. For some reason, his Guide’s frustration is what brought all the pieces together for Thorin. “We can use the archers.” Sudden understanding dawned across the faces of the Dwarves.

 

Frerin jumped in. “We can have the army outside so Azog doesn’t suspect, and we can have the Elves on the battlements, waiting until they get into range.”

 

“You can’t use archers against an army!” Dain objected.

 

“We don’t need to use them against the army,” Frerin corrected. “We just need to take down Azog. Once he’s dead, the army will disband.”

 

Dain, and a good number of the Dwarves on the Erebor war council, stared at Thorin like they couldn’t believe what they were hearing. “That’s not… that’s not how battle works!” one of them shouted. “You don’t attack the commander through the use of arrows, that’s a deceitful, cheating kind of way.”

 

Thorin with his authority, or Frerin with his charm, might have been the best option to handle the question, but Bilbo couldn’t help himself. “Who cares?” The Dwarves all turned to Bilbo, his friends shifting to protect him, and the others staring at him like he was a fool for having an opinion at all. “If you get through this without a war, and with all your people alive, who cares how you do it?”

 

“Wars must be conducted with honor,” Dain scolded like Bilbo was a child, and Bilbo stared back at him like he was an idiot.

 

“You’re fighting a battle against _Orcs_. Who cares if it’s honorable or not when your enemy has no honor? And honor will lead to deaths?”

 

Whatever the council might’ve shouted back, Thorin slammed his palm against the table, the crash of it silencing everyone. He stared off into the middle distance for a long moment, breathing in the quiet, and everyone waited in silence for the undeclared King Under the Mountain to voice his opinion.

 

Eventually, he turned to Bilbo and his eyes went soft. “You are a blessing from Mahal.” Dain tried to stutter something, but Thorin ignored him in favor of watching Bilbo blush. “Until the end of time my people will remember your name, will remember how terribly clever you are.” Thorin strode around the table and pressed a quick kiss to Bilbo’s curls before he sent off one of the messengers to find Elrond and ask him to join the meeting.

 

 Thorin ignored the Dwarves gaping at him and turned his attention to Frerin and Dwalin. The two were moving around the pieces on the map, trying to devise a battle plan that would deceive the Orcs, but keep people from being needlessly killed. “What if Azog waits for Thorin to come to him?” Dwalin asked.

 

Frerin cast a quick glance at Thorin, judging his mood, and Bilbo knew what he was going to say before he took the risk to verbalize it. “I can go on the battlements.”

 

“Absolutely not,” Thorin snapped.

 

“I won’t be out there the whole time, just if Azog isn’t coming into range.”

 

“It’s a good plan, Thorin.”

 

“I don’t want that creature anywhere near my Guide!”

 

“And he won’t be,” Frerin soothed. “He’ll be on the battlements with Lord Elrond and his sons beside him. Should anything go wrong, the Elves will protect him.”

 

“What makes you think having Bilbo out there will even pull Azog closer?”

 

Frerin gave him a glower that said Thorin was being an idiot, and Frerin didn’t appreciate it. “Thorin, you are the most tightly-wound, controlled fellow I’ve ever met, and _you_ can barely keep your hands to yourself. When Azog catches sight of Bilbo he’ll lose his mind.”

 

“That won’t mean a thing if I lose my mind first!”

 

“You can lose your mind all you want when Azog has an arrow in his skull!” It wasn’t often that Frerin challenged his brother in full view of some of the most powerful Dwarves in Erebor, but when he did, Thorin always took pains to listen. “Bilbo coming out will be a last resort, brother. And if Bilbo just standing there, fully protected, keeps more Dwarves alive, don’t you think he’d be willing to do it?”

 

“Considering that Bilbo is standing right here,” the Hobbit pointed out, “he ought to let you know that whether you want me to or not Thorin, I am going to do what I have to do, to protect your people.”

 

“I cannot bear the thought of putting you at risk, _Duninel_.”

 

“And I’m not particularly pleased with you getting into a fight with an Orc that wants to wipe out your whole line, but we’ll both have to make do.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quiet interlude before the storm.

Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, Heir Under the Mountain, was tired. Not in body, because the sight of his Guide, even the barest hint of him on the breeze, was enough to make Thorin burn, to fill him with fire and light. And when his little Hobbit smiled, oh, there was nothing Thorin would not do to see that smile again and again.

 

No, it was Thorin’s soul that was tired.

 

He was a prince, and prince’s lives were meant to be easy. If he took a page out of his father’s book, Thorin was supposed to be spending his days counting piles of gold, eating lavish meals, and ignoring the struggles of his people. But no, Thorin had long ago decided that he should stay out of the treasury. Which meant that by default, he was the Dwarf in charge of Erebor. He levied taxes, tended to the poor, trained the army, oversaw production, and everything in between. Added to that, he had to negotiate the politics of the Lords who wanted nothing more from life than to send Thorin into his own gold sickness so that they might scrape for a bit more power than they already had.

 

His day-to-day life had never been particularly grand, but the oddities of the last month were proving to be even worse. Thorin had taken down a dragon, come into Sentinel gifts that he never once actually believed he might have, and now there was an Orcish army on its way to sever his head from his body and sever his bond from his Guide.

 

Thorin had spent most of the night seeing to the preparations for war. Eventually things had been as prepared as they could be in the middle of the night, and Balin had sent him off to bed. So there he laid, staring up at the canopy, wishing that in just this one thing he might’ve been normal. If he had been a common Dwarrow, he and Bilbo would’ve been married and bonded by now, and probably already back on their way to Bilbo’s homeland. (It wasn’t that Thorin didn’t love Erebor and his Dwarves, but he would’ve liked to live his life on his own terms, free of the demands that everyone else placed on him.

 

Thorin spun himself a lovely little daydream about meeting Bilbo as nothing but a smith from the Blue Mountains who just happened to find his way through Bilbo’s Shire. They’d have a long courtship, spread over months of Thorin travelling through the Hobbit homeland, until one day Bilbo declared that he’d prefer it if just Thorin stayed, and Thorin would tell him that there was nothing he wanted more.

 

Of course, if Thorin wasn’t himself, wasn’t of the line of Durin, he wouldn’t be a Sentinel. And if he wasn’t a Sentinel, then Bilbo would not be his. Thorin could not imagine a world where Bilbo Baggins wasn’t a Guide, and Thorin could not stomach the thought of someone else being Bilbo’s Sentinel. So no matter how many dragons Thorin had to kill, or kingdoms he had to run, Bilbo was a fair exchange.

 

Thorin tried to let that thought be what lulled him to sleep, but thoughts of Bilbo, for all they were soothing to Thorin’s soul, were not soothing to… other parts of his person.

 

Thorin did his best to keep his scandalous thoughts to himself, because as Thorin could smell the arousal on Bilbo, Bilbo could feel it on Thorin. He was bound and determined to keep both his hands and his thoughts to himself. Because someday they would go back to Bilbo’s homeland, and Thorin would have to look Bilbo’s matriarch in the eye, and he wanted to swear with all his honor that he had not defiled her grandson. Thorin knew it was more than his family, his betrothed, and any Dwarf in Erebor expected of him, but he would be steadfast.

 

Which meant that after twenty minutes of staring at his bed’s canopy, Thorin decided it was time to embrace that oldest of Dwarven cures for insomnia: crafting.

 

Thorin tossed on an undershirt to keep himself from roaming about his kingdom in nothing but sleep pants. He had no problems with his state of undress, and the only people who complained were on the council of Lords—though their spouses usually voiced an appreciation for it—but Thorin thought Bilbo might kill him if he found out that people other than him got to see Thorin topless before their wedding. Considering that Thorin would lose his mind if Bilbo were the one to go without a shirt, he could understand that displeasure.

 

(Though, now Thorin was thinking of Bilbo’s soft, little body. About all that pale skin finally uncovered to his gaze, and how Bilbo would flush a pretty pink when Thorin ran his heavy, calloused hands along that skin.)

 

Thorin all but stormed down to the forges. The people he passed along the way gave him teasing smirks, fully aware what had driven him from his comfortable bed so late at night. Somewhere around the fourth dose of Dwarven giggling, Thorin decided that he was going to make beads for Bilbo’s hair. He’d braid back those orderly curls to expose the perfect, pointed tips of his ears so they’d always be available for Thorin’s touch. (Bilbo shuddered whenever Thorin touched his ears, and he planned on teasing that same reaction from the Hobbit every day for the rest of his long life.)

 

Thorin pressed his way down to the bowels of the mountain where the common forges were. In the levels below there were forges set aside for the armorers, the craftsdwarrows, the metalsmiths, the jewelers, and every breed of artisan who found their place in the Lonely Mountain. On each level there were two massive forges designed for large projects and the time in those had to be scheduled. Then there were medium-sized forges scattered throughout, and an untold number of smaller forges set aside for those Dwarves working on personal projects. This particular level was devoted to the silversmiths; what Thorin would have been considered if he hadn’t been a prince.

 

Like all Guilds, the silversmiths always had a Dwarf on duty to protect both the entrance and the Silversmith’s vault, which contained the Guild’s secret treasures and treatises, and the unfinished projects that the silversmiths weren’t ready to have seen in public. Word of Thorin’s late night jaunt had reached the silversmith on duty by the time Thorin arrived, and he had Thorin’s box of tools and a pouch of his refined silver already out and waiting. Thorin grunted his thanks, and the Dwarrow had the sense to do nothing more than give Thorin a polite nod. Thorin remembered that this particular fellow had gotten married last year, and he knew how frustrating it could be to have everyone prodding you about matters that should be between just you and your partner. (Thorin made a mental note to reward him by getting him off guard duty as soon as possible.)

 

Thorin roamed into a forge a good distance away from the level’s entrance and the main forges that were always being worked. He preferred quiet and solitude while he worked, and considering he was going to be taking out his sexual frustration on a hunk of metal, privacy was paramount. (Most of the older smiths gave Thorin his space when he was in the common forges, making the effort to treat him as nothing more than a fellow smith. But there were those young lads who intruded because they didn’t know better, and those grasping Dwarrows who only saw Thorin as the prince.)

 

The room was pleasantly warm with the leftover heat from whoever had been in before him. The weak light from the stones suspended at the four corners of the room was just enough to illuminate the forge, the bench, and the bins of kindling and fresh charcoal within the space. Thorin had heard whispers that the goldsmiths worked in rooms lined with stones that shone like the midday sun, but Thorin couldn’t imagine it. Properly working silver was all a matter of sight, of knowing just the right shade of pink turned to pale red that meant the metal was ready to be worked. To know that, the room’s light had to come from the metal and the hearth. (There were more crystals in a stone box kept on the table, in case one of the younger Dwarves needed a bit more light to work their designs into the metal. And if one of the older Dwarves needed it, they would never admit to such a shame.)

 

One by one Thorin checked the charcoals in the forge, stacking the ones still good around a heart of kindling, and tossing aside those that would no longer carry heat. (It was the first lecture his master had given him as an apprentice: know the fire. Only once had Thorin made the mistake of trusting another Dwarf to prepare the forge for him, and his master had made sure the flame roared out of control and nearly burned off young Thorin’s scant trace of a beard. Thorin had never made that mistake again.)

 

He lit the kindling with the flint he kept in his box of tools, and when the fire started to burn all on its own, Thorin began the slow process of pressing the bellows. Here was the soothing silence that he’d come looking for. Thorin spent the last month in almost constant pain, trying to wrangle his senses back under enough control that he could at least do his duty. That was possibly the worst part of being confined to the Stones; his siblings had been left to carry all the responsibility that was meant to be on Thorin’s shoulders.

 

Soon enough the charcoal burned a yellow white, hot enough to melt his silver. He took up his crucible and nudged open a space in the heart of the charcoals for its rest. He would melt the silver in the cup of the crucible, then pour it out into a sheet so that he might begin the work on beads for Bilbo’s hair. By morning he could have several simple beads made, their patterns an ancient way to convey only the most basic of Thorin’s love for his Hobbit. The beads he wanted to make (veined with mithril and studded with rubies to make others see how Bilbo glowed in the light), and the tools (for the garden he was going to build for his Hobbit), and the teapot (Balin had told him about the vicious lecture he’d received on proper tea service from Thorin’s fussy little Guide), all would have to wait until after tomorrow’s battle, and after the bonding.

 

He stopped himself from thinking about all the jewelry he’d like to craft for Bilbo. His Hobbit didn’t seem like the kind to appreciate rings or the clasps that Thorin would’ve loved to weave through Bilbo’s hair. No, Bilbo preferred things that were practical above all else, and Thorin had already begun to wonder just how large the backlash would be if he took up a second mastery in blacksmithing.

 

When the crucible turned white from the heat of the charcoal, Thorin dropped in a small lump of silver and watched as its stubborn hardness melted away under the persistent warmth. If there was a better analogy for the position he found himself in, Thorin couldn’t think of it.

 

Thorin was ashamed to admit that in his younger years he’d wasted away many hours wondering what his One looked like. Eventually he’d accepted that he ought to just be grateful that he’d had contact with his One at all, and worried himself far less about what the fellow looked like. Far less didn’t mean not at all, though.

 

The warm, lavender scent of Bilbo had cut through the cold darkness of the Stones, pulling Thorin out of his sleep. He’d known the moment he woke that there were two guards on the door and a passel of foreign _Dunin_ on their way down to him, and that his Guide was so close Thorin could taste him. On nothing but instinct Thorin had followed the scent to a gap behind a massive rock formation, a gap that Thorin had never heard tell of, and was almost certain that every Sentinel and Guide who had ever been to the Stones had kept secret.

 

He’d edged his way through the gap—no small feat with his broad shoulders—only to freeze on the spot when he caught sight of Bilbo storming past his escape route. The light outside was a pale blue, and Thorin’s breath caught in his throat at how the color lit up Bilbo’s hair and made him glow like a too-hot ember. His features were soft and comely, and all Thorin wanted was to gather him up in his arms and feel his warmth.

 

Thorin knew he was not a plain Dwarf (a thought confirmed by his own reflection in the silver as he poured it out into a single sheet). Short-haired and bare-faced as the Hobbit was, Thorin knew Bilbo was not considered a paragon of Dwarven beauty. But the sight of Bilbo had made him feel as ungainly as he had the first time he met Lady Galadriel.

 

Bilbo wore no armor and kept his hair cut above the chin, which meant his neck was exposed all. the. time. When Bilbo laughed with his mischievous chortle, he leaned forward, and Thorin could see the sensitive line of untouched flesh. He fantasied about stroking him there, about how Bilbo would shudder and flush at the scratch of Thorin’s calluses trying so hard to be gentle with him.

 

As if the unblemished skin of Bilbo’s throat wasn’t tempting enough, Bilbo went without shoes.

 

Given Bilbo’s size you’d expect him to have petite feet, but rather than be off-putting, their size was just perfect enough that you could see Bilbo’s toes. Toes that curled when he was pleased. They puckered sweetly when Bilbo lost himself in the happiness of being surrounded by family, and his whole foot bowed under the pleasure when Thorin pressed his lips to Bilbo’s pointed ears.

 

Oh, and Mahal help him, Bilbo’s ears. Sensitive little points that begged to have Thorin’s fingers run over their soft edge. To have passing kisses pressed to them every time Thorin said hello. (Elven ears had always been a dirty little daydream of Thorin’s.) Thorin could see it now, his feisty husband complaining about the utter lack of common sense among Dwarves, and Thorin would pull his Guide into his arms and stroke up the curve of his ear and back down again until he was too flustered to fuss. When the Council of Lords objected, Thorin would pull his husband closer and say that his preferred for proving the worth of Dwarves involved less clothes. The Lords would sputter and Bilbo would blush all the way to the tips of those pointed ears and Thorin would feel the heat under his fingers.

 

Mulling on Bilbo carried Thorin through cooling the silver sheet and punching out a row of discs to form. It was traditional to propose with just one bead that bore a rune symbolizing that which you loved best about your beloved. Thorin though, he was not a Dwarf well known for his restraint. Instead, he made three beads. (One for Bilbo’s bangs, and two to expose those ears for touching. It was practical of him, not excess.) Each bead bore the rune for a delicious trait of his Bilbo. Something precious and rare and utterly undwarven. That way Bilbo could never doubt that Thorin loved him just as he was, Hobbit and all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I have watched two (count em: *two*) documentaries on silversmithing to try and get these details right for you. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me.


	16. Chapter 16

Bilbo was almost positive that Thorin didn’t realize he was projecting. Because if Thorin was _intentionally_ projecting his current blend of adoration and desire, Bilbo was going to thump him over the head and refuse to have sex for a year.

 

Alright, that was a lie. But Bilbo was going to find some sufficiently Dwarven way of punishing him for spending the last few days telling Bilbo that they should wait and then dangling his own pleasure out there like a freshly-baked pie on a windowsill. (Bilbo had been terrible at avoiding temptation when he was a Hobbitling, and he was far worse at it now. Particularly when that temptation involved the broad chest of his own Sentinel.)

 

Bilbo caught the trail of Thorin’s longing and followed it down to the lower levels of the mountain. He got a few strange looks from Dwarves, but those looks were more of the ‘How did he know Thorin was here’ than of the ‘What is a Hobbit doing down here’ variety. At least, they were of that kind until Bilbo found himself at archway guarded by a young Dwarf who looked absolutely terrified to be telling Bilbo he couldn’t pass.

 

“Consort— _Dunin_ — _Sir_ , I can’t let you in here.”

 

Bilbo decided that this was not the time to glower and instead gave the fellow an understanding sort of smile. “And why not?”

 

“It is the _Kibilîn_.” Bilbo decided that if the fellow wasn’t going to speak in words he knew, he was under no obligation to listen to him. Bilbo gave a polite nod and tried to step past, but the Dwarf shuffled himself back into Bilbo’s way. “It’s the Silver-Place, Sir. None but silversmiths are allowed past this door and into these halls.”

 

 “Not even me?” Bilbo prodded. “You almost called me consort a moment ago.”

 

“That doesn’t matter here.”

 

“Your future King’s Guide doesn’t matter?”

 

“Not in these halls. Here he is just Thorin. He’s a Master in the art to be sure, but in this place he has just the same voice as all the other masters.”

 

Bilbo’s temper was officially lost. Beyond this door was a Thorin who was all tangled up in his desire. “I don’t care.”

 

Bilbo stormed past and lad reached out to stop him, but at least he had the sense to pause at Bilbo’s glower. “If you touch me, you will regret it.”

 

“I would never dare to do such a thing outside of these halls, Sir, but I have given my oaths to guard this place with my life.”

 

The poor boy sounded like he was about to cry, and Bilbo was no so hard-hearted as that. “Then can you go in there and tell Thorin that I’m here?” And now the boy looked petrified. For all his pretty words about the equality found within the halls, he still didn’t want to interrupt the prince. “Or is there someone who could get him for me? Isn’t there a chief among the masters or something?”

 

“Well, the _Kibilûn_ —the Silver Dwarf” he amended. “He is the oldest and best of our Guild, and he speaks for us, but ‘in charge’ isn’t really how I’d put it.”

 

“Actually laddie, that’s exactly how I’d put it.” The Dwarf who spoke was tall, with a bulbous nose and a smile like he knew something everyone else didn’t. Bilbo wouldn’t have minded either of those details if this particular Dwarf hadn’t also been a Sentinel; a strong enough Sentinel that he’d probably been the one in charge up until Thorin came into his gifts. Bilbo hardened his expression and the Dwarf snorted. “I trained him, lad. Long before Thorin knew what he might become, my _Dunin_ and I took one look at the infant Crown Prince and knew that someday he would be our King in every sense of the word.”

 

“Then you have my utmost gratitude. And I would be even more grateful if you would happen to go tell Thorin that I’m here.”

 

“Did he summon you, laddie?” The Dwarf asked the question in that tone of voice that every wife had used on every husband since the dawn of time when they thought their spouse was being unreasonable. Which just made Bilbo want to be unreasonable.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did he truly?” the Dwarf asked, a little bit of scolding creeping into his tone.

 

Bilbo had had it up to his ears with Dwarves and their strange ways. “He damn well better have, because if there’s anyone else back there with him making him project quite so much… _hunger_ , then Frerin will be the crown prince instead.”

 

The Dwarf actually had the gall to laugh at that, a deep chortle that Bilbo could feel all the way down to the soles of his feet. That, more than anything, was what convinced Bilbo that this Dwarf could be trusted. (So far as he’d noticed, the wretched in the world had terrible laughs.) “I am Kaib, the _Kibilûn_ of Erebor, and Second _Shomakhâl_ to Thorin Oakenshield.”

 

“And I’m Bilbo Baggins, Thorin’s Guide. Who would very much like to see him at the moment.”

 

“May I ask why you don’t just summon him to you?”

 

“Because that would be rude. You only summon people with your gifts in dire emergencies.”

 

“And where did you get that idea?”

 

Bilbo had long since passed the point where he was content to be interrogated by Dwarves who knew nothing about him. He was beginning to realize that if you indulged them once, they took that as a sign that this was acceptable behavior and kept on pestering you about things that really were none of their business. “My homeland,” he snapped, intending for that to be the end of it.

 

But of course, it wasn’t. “What makes your people believe that it’s impolite?”

 

Under normal circumstances Bilbo might have been pleased with the genuine interest he heard in the Dwarf’s voice and taken it as a chance to suss out some of the Hobbit-Dwarf differences that he’d stumbled across. But somewhere beyond that hall was Thorin Oakenshield being made deliriously happy by something, and that something was not Bilbo Baggins. “I don’t know, what makes your people think it’s alright to try and force someone else’s Sentinel into a bond?”

 

Whatever pleasantness there was on Kaib’s face shut down. “Things are complicated when you’re dealing with a future King.”

 

“I don’t care about whatever complications you people think there are. He’s my Sentinel. He’s the other half of me.” Kaib raised his hands like Bilbo was a woodland creature he was trying not to startle. “Stop it. Just because I’m not a Dwarf that doesn’t make me daft.”

 

“I don’t think you’re daft, laddie. But I do believe you’re trying to win at a game when you don’t know the rules that everyone else is playin’ by.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I’ll lose.”

 

“No, but it does mean you don’t know when you’re being cheated.” The words slammed into Bilbo like one of these Dwarven hammers to an anvil. He shuddered with the impact and for one terrible moment Bilbo thought it might actually be true. That the reason Thorin was putting off their bonding was some Dwarf he actually preferred to his Guide. Was that he didn’t really want Bilbo for his own.

 

The delirious hope that had ranged about Bilbo’s chest from the very first moment he’d known, beyond all trace of doubt, that his Sentinel was out there and needed him, began to wilt like flowers too long denied water. The shock was such that Bilbo didn’t feel the soft threads of his soulbond with Thorin begin to wither, too tired to sustain themselves under the gnawing doubt that Thorin had might have chosen someone else.

 

Kaib watched Bilbo’s expression crumple, and even a non-Sentinel would’ve been able to sense the pain in him. He shouted to the poor guard to get Thorin and bring him here now, while Kaib started for the small Guide who was going into shock. Something in Kaib’s words had been lost in translation and the Hobbit seemed to think that Kaib had meant something far worse than the warning he’d been trying to convey. Just because Thorin was smitten with this odd creature didn’t mean that the other Guides in the mountain would concede. They’d come here to be bonded to a King, and they would do what they had to, to see it done.

 

But judging by the way Bilbo shuffled away with his soft hands clenched to his breastbone, he’d heard something else.

 

Bilbo’s own mind was stuck how his mother had loved his father, but his father was not her Guide. Because in truth, Ones and soulmates and partners were all just a fancy way of saying that this was the person you chose to spend your life with. And for all his pretty words and barely-there touches, Thorin hadn’t made a choice. There were only so many times a Hobbit could throw himself at a fellow and get rejected before he got the message.

 

After all, Bilbo hadn’t asked Thorin to wait to bond until after they were married, and judging by some of the gossip that Dwarves considered to be a decent topic of public conversation, Thorin was not known for his patience regarding bed partners. And not one Dwarf who’d been accorded the honor had ever minded being Thorin’s for only one night. Apparently he was entirely worth the trouble.

 

Bilbo had been in love with Thorin since before he knew the Dwarf’s name. Before he understood that Thorin was a Dwarf, and that he was more than a figment of Bilbo’s imagination. Bilbo would’ve married him and spent the rest of their lives in Bag End raising nine children, or lived unmarried and in dishonor if that’s what Thorin wanted. Crossing the whole of Middle-earth had been Bilbo making his choice, and Thorin couldn’t seem to do the same. Thorin wouldn’t even take Bilbo to bed like he had with an untold number of Dwarves scattered throughout the kingdom. Couldn’t even give him that. Couldn’t choose him for just a night.

 

Bilbo told himself that he was being dramatic, that Thorin was just trying to show respect for the traditions of his One. But Bilbo couldn’t push aside the freshly seeded doubt that had taken root in his mind. Perhaps Thorin had preferred keeping his Hobbit tucked away in the confines of his dreams where he didn’t have to look at the strange creature with its plump lines and unnerving lack of beard. Where he could have all of Bilbo’s support without needing to explain that he wasn’t a Dwarf.

 

No matter how long he lived, Bilbo would always love Thorin. He had made that choice. And Bilbo suspected that Thorin had made a choice of his own, and neglected to tell the Hobbit.

 

While Bilbo wrapped himself in doubt and self-loathing, Thorin came ripping through the hall. The call of the guard was nothing compared to the pain he could feel coming from his Guide. Their bond was thinning, like a skein of steel pulled so tight the threads were snapping away. He smashed through the archway and zeroed in on Bilbo, charging forward to scoop up the Hobbit and carry him away from this place. But before he could lay a hand upon his Guide, a pair of wiry arms seized him mid-step and dragged him to the ground. Thorin lashed out against the hold with vicious blows too quick for the normal eye to see. Through the haze of violence, words began to trickle in. “Thorin! Thorin you daft little maggot, I’m trying to help you!”

 

Had the voice belonged to anyone other than Kaib, Thorin would’ve beaten them already, and might not have stopped. “Thorin, you have to stay calm!”

 

“He’s in pain!” Thorin reared up underneath Kaib, only to get smashed back to the ground.

 

“And you’re not making it better!” Kaib grabbed Thorin by the beard and wrenched his head to the side, putting Bilbo in his line of sight. The fight had forced Bilbo out of his trance, but into something worse. The little Hobbit had his back and palms pressed up against the wall, almost shivering in confusion and fear. Thorin had been the picture perfect image of control in almost every moment since Bilbo had arrived, and the sight of him attacking another Dwarrow to get to him was shocking.

 

Thorin forced himself to still, clenching down on every last one of his instincts. He tried to smile at Bilbo, to comfort him, but it came out more as a baring of teeth. If possible, Bilbo pressed himself tighter against the stone like it might swallow him whole and take him away from here.

 

Thorin reminded himself that his Guide was a sweet, soft little thing with no penchant for violence. Bilbo had a quick tongue and no hesitation about making his opinion known, and for that Thorin would willingly put aside the more… aggressive aspects of his own species. He’d been good, so terribly good for Bilbo. Forcing himself to behave; to constrain all those wicked impulses that went beyond simple, soft touches that would not offend Hobbit sensibilities.

 

(For what other reason would Thorin restrict his fantasies about Bilbo’s plump, little body to his ears and toes and neck rather than contemplating what it might be like to taste Bilbo’s cock and see if it was as sweet as Bilbo’s temperament, or if Bilbo would whine when Thorin pressed thick fingers into his tight body. He wanted to watching his Hobbit stretch and writhe, demanding to be filled… and Thorin needed to stop that train of thought right now before Bilbo realized what kind of depraved creature he’d actually found himself bound to.)

 

However, Kaib—strategically placed as he was—knew precisely what Thorin was thinking. “If you touch him now, you will complete the bond.” Thorin bit his lip to keep himself for replying to that statement in the way he wanted, and tried not to wonder what had motivated that shudder from Bilbo. He was worried that Bilbo was already repulsed by the idea, but Kaib thumped Thorin’s head back against the stone to force his focus away from Bilbo’s blush. “You’re going to war tomorrow. If you bond tonight you won’t leave his side, and you need to leave his side. Unless sometime in the last few days you’ve become the kind of Dwarf who lets his people fight without him. Lets his people be slaughtered by the Orc who’s hunting you, while you stay wrapped up warm and safe in bed.”

 

“Stop it! Bilbo shouted, and Thorin’s heart hummed at his Guide leaping to his defense. “He’s a good Dwarf, and a good commander!”

 

But something about Bilbo’s words infuriated Kaib. He thumped Thorin back against the stone for no good reason and shouted, “He doesn’t understand!

 

Bilbo hadn’t thought that his heart could hurt any more, but there it went. Some prideful, Tookish part of his soul insisted that he wouldn’t give the Dwarves the satisfaction of his tears, but he couldn’t stop the dreadful keening sound from his broken, Baggins heart.

 

Bilbo spun himself away, trying to break free of this awful place and get out of this terrible mountain before anything else happened to him, but he crashed into the broad chest of another Dwarf. “Hold on, laddie.” Bilbo didn’t want to listen to him, but it was hard to fight against the healing balm he was to Bilbo’s soul. Bilbo didn’t want another thing to do with any Dwarf, let alone their awful Guides, or this Guide in particular who was no doubt the partner of the Sentinel currently sitting on Thorin and telling him what a terrible creature Bilbo was.

 

But the pause was just enough time that Bilbo could hear Thorin hiss through clenched teeth, “You are the father of my heart Kaib, but I will allow no one to speak that way about my Bilbo.”

 

“It was not an insult to him, you daft boy! Your Guide cannot understand what you do not explain to him!”

 

“I love him! What else needs to be explained?”

 

Bilbo started at the declaration and Kaib smirked. “Obviously quite a bit if your Guide is surprised to hear it.”

 

Thorin whipped across an elbow and bashed it into Kaib’s cheek, sending the older Dwarf to the ground. Thorin followed him in a roll, holding Kaib down so he could get a proper look at his Hobbit. “Bilbo, I swore to you my love and my oaths. How… you are the heart of me. I do not know how I can make it clearer.”

 

“And that’s because you’re an idiot,” Kaib grumbled, only to have Thorin grab him by his hair and smash his face into the ground. Bilbo could see blood coming from the other Sentinel’s nose, and given the last ten minutes of his life, Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to mind.

 

“I know what you’ve said, but… but you refused to Bond with me, and then that fellow said you were behind that door bedding someone else.”

 

Thorin’s shout of rage was overlaid with Kaib’s own shout of confusion, but the Guide at Bilbo’s back drowned them both out with his own string of Khuzdul obscenities. Both Sentinels fell silent, and the Guide looped an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling him close while he let his own ambient nature soothe them all back from violent outbursts. “First thing laddie, my name is Óin. I’m a healer by trade, and because fate is a cruel mistress, I’m stuck with that idiot’s as my Sentinel,” he nodded to Kaib, “and cursed with Thorin and his lot as distant cousins.”

 

It wasn’t so much the fellow being a Guide that pulled Bilbo’s attention, but that he was Thorin’s relative. No matter the current situation, his Hobbit upbringing still made Thorin’s family _his_ family, and he gave the older Dwarf a polite bow. Óin pressed both his hands to the side of Bilbo’s head and brought him in for a soft forehead bump in hello. “Though I will say this. If dealing with Thorin means that I get you for family, I suppose he’s worth all the trouble.”

 

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure how Thorin could smile through his swelling cheek, but he managed to. The sight of it was enough to make Bilbo grin back, then he remembered he was furious with Thorin and turned that grin to a glower.

 

Óin patted him on the back hard enough to stumble Bilbo forward. “I agree with you lad. If Thorin really was having an affair I’ll help you string him up myself, and there’s not a Dwarf in the whole city who would be able to stop us. Though judging by the sour turns both their faces took, I think there might be a misunderstanding somewhere in here. I’m a firm believer in the power of listening, I’ll have you know. And I think that perhaps you and I ought to give them both a good listen before we move Frerin up the line of succession.” Óin tugged Bilbo close to his side, like he was more than able to defend the Hobbit from two raging Sentinels, and Bilbo believed him.

 

Óin turned a glower on the Sentinels that Grandmother Baggins would’ve been proud of, and words came tumbling out. “I said he hadn’t been instructed in the proper rules of behavior for being a Gifted Dwarf,” Kaib declared.

 

“He’s a Hobbit!” Thorin shouted.

 

“Who’s in love with a Dwarf!” Kaib bucked up underneath Thorin to throw the him off his back.

 

Óin gave a sharp whistle, and demanded that both the Sentinels sit up like the proper Dwarves they were, and if they started hitting one another again, so help them, Óin would make them both regret it. “Now, tell me properly, what did you say, Sentinel of mine?”

 

“I said he didn’t know the rules the other Guides worked by, and when you don’t know the rules, you can’t tell when other people are cheating.”

 

“Ahh, and in Hobbit terms that means a partner is being unfaithful?” Óin put the question to Bilbo.

 

He crossed his arms and refused to be soothed by the soft tone. “That you’ve been ‘cheated on’ by your partner, yes.”

 

“And what _did_ you mean, Kaib?”

 

“That Thorin has been a damn fool, acting like he’s still got the Hobbit safely tucked away in the back of his head. The lad can’t protect himself against other Dwarves if he doesn’t know how the other Dwarves work.”

 

“He’s a Hobbit!” Thorin shouted again, and it seemed Óin was done with this madness.

 

“Oh, Thorin, just when I think you might have a bit of sense in you, you go and prove me wrong. For years this lad has kept you alive, kept you afloat through the madness of your father and grandfather. You’ve told us about every dream you’ve had, from the first to the last, and it is his voice in your ear that has reshaped our kingdom. You command the respect and affection of our people in a way that no Dwarf has since the Second Age. You have done more for our people than any Dwarf save Durin, and even more than some of his incarnations, and you’ve done it because you had a _Hobbit_ in the back of your head.”

 

Thorin flushed at the praise, and nearly begged, “Don’t you think I know that?”

 

“I think you know, but you don’t understand. This lad has kept you whole and hale your entire life, which—for the life of me—I cannot understand with his age being so much less than yours. He did as well by you as he could considering that he was a world away, and you did your best by him considering you weren’t a Sentinel.”

 

“If it was my best—”

 

Kaib smacked Thorin upside the head and took over the conversation. “It _was_ your best, lad. But your Guide has crossed the breadth of Middle-earth expecting the Sentinel he’s stood beside his whole life, and what he’s found is a common Dwarf.” The words bit at Thorin’s pride, but rather than snap something about how the line of Durin had never been common, he swallowed back his ego. Vanity had no place in affairs of the heart. It would sour everything (and yes, Bilbo’s own unfettered affection had taught him that).

 

Bilbo wanted to leap to Thorin’s defense, he really did, but only a few minutes ago he’d been convinced that Thorin didn’t really love him, so perhaps some change in communication could beneficial. Pained, Thorin asked, “How do I do better, then?”

 

“You let the lad lean on you for a change. He’s given you everything you asked for since the moment you met behind that thick skull of yours. This time you ought to give him what he needs.”

 

“I’m _trying_.” 

 

“No laddie, you’re not.” Kaib sounded so disappointed that Thorin’s heart broke. “You’re giving him what you think a Hobbit needs.”

 

“How is that not trying?” Thorin snapped.

 

“He’s the bonded beloved, One and Guide of a Dwarven Alpha Sentinel. You think that hasn’t changed him? Having a Hobbit in the back of your mind has changed you. You’re terribly fond of Elves, and today you supported a battle plan that revolves all around Elven archers. That’s not the Dwarf in you, it’s the Hobbit. And your Bilbo, he’s a fiercely possessive little thing, and I couldn’t tell you if that’s a Hobbit trait, but I know for sure it’s a Dwarven one.”

 

“What’s your point?”

 

“Oh laddie,” Óin sighed. “The point is that you’ve changed one another. You can obey the Hobbit rules all you like, but he’s not quite a Hobbit anymore. He’s a… a dwobbitI suppose.” Thorin snickered, which was precisely the response Óin had been looking for. “Don’t scoff laddie, you’re more Dwobbit than Dwarf now, too. No dwarf would spare one second trying to delay taking their treasure for their own.”

 

Thorin turned to Bilbo with solemn eyes. “What am I to do then?”

 

“Be yourself, he loves you just as you are. And listen to the lad when he tells you who he is.” Kaib gave him a good shake. “You’re his Sentinel, so be it.”

 

Thorin looked like a discussion of feelings might actually do him in, so Bilbo stepped forward to do the talking, but Thorin held up a restraining hand. “They’re right, you know. I leave you to do all the heavy lifting and give you nothing in return.”

 

“Don’t be daft. You do plenty of things for me. Tomorrow you’re going to save me from an Orc.” Bilbo gave his most impish of grins and Thorin managed a return smile. “Yes, I would prefer to be bonded to you before this whole chaos happens, but I understand that it would just make things exponentially harder on you. And I know I must seem more than odd to you and your Dwarves, but—”

 

Thorin reached out and grasped Bilbo by the hips—careful to keep his hands on the thicker fabric of Bilbo’s breeches. He tugged the Hobbit forward, and with Thorin still sitting, Bilbo actually got to look down at his Dwarf for once. “We have a legend that says when Durin was young, freshly hewn from the mountainside, he wandered the wide world looking for others like him. It is said that in his travels he entered a wood and fell into a river. Since Durin was made from rocks, he began to sink. He reached out at grasped at the bank, but every fistful of dirt and scrap of plant wouldn’t hold him.

 

“With his last breath he flung out his hand and caught ahold of a thin branch. He despaired, thinking that this too would rip from the earth rather than bear his weight, but the plant held. Hand over hand on the thin branch, Durin pulled himself out of the river. The branch bounced and bobbed with him like a rope, clinging nearly as well to Durin as he clung to it. When Durin found his way to dry land, he plucked up the plant and took it with him, swearing that he and his line would keep it with them always.”

 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this Thorin, but you Dwarves don’t have much in the way of plants around here.”

 

“We haven’t many, I’ll give you that, but we honor that which we do. It was an Ash sapling that saved my ancestor, and the cleverest of our tools are still crafted with that wood.”

 

Bilbo nodded along like this all made perfect sense to him, and for the first time since his Guide had arrived, Thorin deliberately reached out with his senses to know what Bilbo was feeling. What he got was confusion, and more than a bit of embarrassment that Bilbo was unwilling to admit to. (Thorin could also feel Kaib’s glow of pride that he was already doing better.) “You are my Ash tree, Bilbo Baggins. You been pulling me from a river my whole life, and I swear to you, I will not let you drown in exchange.”

 

Bilbo leaned down and pressed his forehead to Thorin’s, soaking in his Sentinel’s shudders. Thorin could feel Bilbo’s delight at being compared to a tree, and the pleasure reflected back to him. Not in the way Bilbo’s had yesterday, through a lack of control, but because Thorin was reaching out for him with his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Kaib - Geoffrey Rush
> 
> The story of the Ash tree comes from Norse mythology where Thor is saved from a river by grabbing hold of an Ash tree. In my head canon the Dwarven approach to religion/culture is more Norse (since all their names come from Norse mythology).


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter was supposed to be about 500 words at the beginning of the next chapter... obviously that went awry.

 

First breakfast was endured amidst Adalgrim’s giggles and Drogo’s pained sighs. There was a Sentinel-Guide par of Elves at the door, while the rest of their friends were off handling battle plans. Bilbo tried to be grateful to his cousins for their distraction attempts (Adalgrim focused on all the naughty things that Thorin and Bilbo might have gotten up to, while Drogo contemplated hors d’oeuvres and color palettes). But it was difficult to pay them any heed when through the thickening bond Bilbo could feel his Sentinel preparing for the fight.

 

Thorin didn’t want any part of Bilbo near the battle, but when the Dwarf had tried to close down his emotions and keep Bilbo out, he reminded his Sentinel that he’d be near the battlements anyway, and if Thorin kept him out then Bilbo would come out on to that battlefield, just see if he didn’t.

 

Thorin hadn’t quite believed Bilbo, but he knew better than to test the willpower of a stubborn Hobbit.

 

Second breakfast was put aside in favor of fussing from his family. Frerin had stayed with Thorin to rally the troops and lead them into position outside, but that meant Dís was stuck juggling her father, grandfather, sons, and future brother-in-law. Adalgrim and Drogo transferred their fussing from Bilbo to Fili and Kili, gathering up the Dwarflings to soothe them. The boys, however, weren’t concerned about what might come from the battle. Skirmishes with Orcs were just part of everyday life for Dwarves, but they were good enough sports to pretend that Hobbit-hugs were necessary.

 

Dís handled her forebearers by posting a particularly loyal pair of guards on the treasury door, since she was certain that would be enough.

 

Bilbo though, Bilbo needed a certain amount of consideration before she could be done with him. “Thorin wanted to handle this himself first thing, but Óin and Kaib pointed out that apparently the two of you pushed yourselves far enough last night, and if Thorin risked it, he wouldn’t be making it out to the battlefield.”

 

Bilbo spared a moment to be grateful that his cousins were too wrapped up in the boys to be paying Dís any real attention. “I would like to point out that I would have absolutely no problem with Thorin staying off the battlefield.”

 

 “I know you wouldn’t, and neither would I. But you and I both know what must be done.”

 

Bilbo wanted to snort at the notion of ‘must,’ but he could feel Thorin’s determination to take down Azog and free Middle-earth from his villainy, and it was impossible to make light of that. Dís understood Bilbo’s silence and wrapped him up in a thin layer of mail that she tucked away underneath his shirt. It was a rather fetching sort of silver (“Mithril, Bilbo”), though Thorin hadn’t made it (“It was forged by Durin himself to protect his firstborn son”). According to Dís, Thorin had insisted Bilbo wear it when he went out on the battlements, because there was nothing in whole of Erebor that would protect him better.

 

Bilbo thought the whole thing was a bit silly (the Orcs weren’t going to be shooting at _him_ after all), but he put it on without complaint. He even sent Thorin a pulse of satisfaction at how comfortable the mail was against his skin, and something in Thorin settled at that information. (Whether he was comforted that Bilbo was safe, or took pleasure in having something of his pressed against Bilbo’s skin with nothing in between them, Bilbo wasn’t sure, and decided that this wasn’t the time to investigate.)

 

Dís stepped back, pursed her lips, and fussed for a few more moments, making sure that she had Bilbo’s layers properly arranged. When he was the most formidable a Hobbit could get—which was to say, not very—she gave him a nod and reached into her pockets. None of the Durin family seemed particularly gifted with subtlety, and if possible, Dís even less so than her siblings. (The boys had to get it from somewhere, after all.)

 

From her pocket she pulled out a tight fist, and held out to Bilbo three small, silver balls. “My brother wanted to give these to you himself, but when he realized he couldn’t join you, he decided he would take more comfort from you wearing them than from having them tucked away with his smithing things. He asked me to give them to you for safekeeping, but I know he’d prefer if you let me braid them in your hair.”

 

Bilbo plucked up one of the orbs and realized there was a hole running through the center of it. “Is this a bead?”

 

“Yes. As part of Dwarven courting Thorin should give you one bead that sums up everything he loves about you in just one rune. Thorin, being Thorin, decided to make you three beads in one night. I do hope you realize what sort of trouble you’re getting into by bonding with my brother. He’s always been horribly impulsive.”

 

“I have found him to be quite the opposite,” Bilbo murmured, gathering the beads into his palm and taking in the deep etchings on each of them. He knew enough from simple common sense to know that the images were Dwarven runes, and that there was one apiece on each of the beads, but he hadn’t a clue what any of them said.

 

“Don’t get too attached. When Thorin gets back from the battle Óin will smack him upside the head and demand that he stick with tradition and give you one, while Kaib will insult the quality of his workmanship and demand that he produce something that’s worthy of his status as a master, and of being Kaib’s student.”

 

Bilbo cupped the beads between his hands and pulled them tight to his chest, like someone might try and snatch them out of his grip. “But they’re mine.”

 

Dís gave him a strange sort of look. Like she was trying to puzzle out the idiosyncrasies of Hobbits, and Bilbo was making things far more difficult than they needed to be. “No one would taken them from you, but no one would expect you to wear them beyond today. Not when they’re of such inferior make.”

 

“I can’t imagine anything made by Thorin would come out inferior.”

 

“Compared to what he is capable of making, these beads are little better than something made by a human.”

 

“But they were made by Thorin, and they were made for me, so I’ll keep them, thank you very much.”

 

Dís laughed like Bilbo had long since passed odd in her estimation, but she appreciated his dedication to her brother nonetheless. “That is a conversation that you’ll have to have with Thorin, and I would appreciate it if you had the conversation when I am there to watch the two of you fight it out. I cannot imagine a better way to spend an afternoon.” Bilbo snorted at the thought of Thorin putting up a fight at all. “However that fight might end, these are the only beads that Thorin has crafted for you at the moment, and I would like the honor of placing them in your hair.

 

Bilbo stood patiently, expecting Dís and her superior height to just begin braiding. When Dís didn’t move, Bilbo gestured towards one of the chairs and asked if she’d prefer him sitting to make this easier. “I need your consent, Bilbo.”

 

“To touch my hair?”

 

“These braids and beads mean that your courtship with my brother is official.”

 

“And there are Dwarves somewhere in this mountain who might have missed yesterday’s banquet? Or Thorin declaring to all and sundry that I’m his One?”

 

He could tell Dís wanted to roll her eyes at Bilbo’s dramatics, but stopped herself because her sons would consider that permission to do it themselves. “Announcements and declarations mean not a thing until there’s a bead in your hair, Bilbo Baggins.”

 

“Like how all Drogo’s fussing over Primula doesn’t count until he’s given her a ring,” Adalgrim chipped in. Drogo was waylaid by Dwarflings demanding to know who this Primula person was and why the Hobbits hadn’t brought her along.

 

Bilbo ignored the conversation going on behind him and gave Dís a look that declared he had thought she was the clever one in the Durin family. “Don’t give me that glower, Bilbo. It is our law that any bead woven in to your hair, or braid put there must only be done with your full and free consent.”

 

“Then you have it, Dís. My full and free consent to put these particular three beads in my hair as many times as you’d like.” Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “And no other beads.”

 

Dís did roll her eyes that time, and dragged Bilbo over to a waiting stool. “You say that now, but when it comes time for your wedding, you don’t want Frerin and his clumsy fingers to be the one putting beads in your hair.”

 

Dís knew full well that was referring to the beads rather than the person doing the braiding, but Bilbo decided he ought to keep his teasing to himself since Dís was about to be tugging on his hair. Dís settled Bilbo on the stool, and the boys immediately cast aside their conversation with the other two Hobbits. Fili grabbed Adalgrim and Drogo by the hands and pulled them over to settle in at Bilbo’s feet, while Kili bounded over to his mother and asked, “Please, Mama, please! Can I help?”

 

Dís tugged her youngest son in tight and smacked a kiss to his tangled mess of hair. “How about I explain things to Bilbo, then you can help me with the first braid, while your brother helps me with the second, and you both can help with the third.”

 

Kili’s arms shot up in triumph and he dropped down beside his brother. The adults chuckled at the boys, but quickly moved back to silence. They knew so little of Dwarven culture, but they knew there was something important happening here, they could feel it in the air.

 

From one of the many pockets hidden away in her dress, Dís pulled out a beautiful, bristle brush. She held it to the side so Bilbo could take a long look at its perfect shape and the fine, silver etchings of a bundle of blossoms in first bloom that arched across its back and around the handle. “This brush is part of the set Thorin crafted for me when I came of age. Two brushes, several combs, a lovely mirror, and all the things he’d been told a Dwarrowdam needed as part of her primping.”

 

Bilbo reached out to touch, then paused to make sure Dís was comfortable with that before he ran deft fingers over the unfurling edge of a bud. The lines were so exquisite that with the subtlest of changes in width and depth Bilbo could see the light and shade on each blossom. His senses were hard pressed to believe that he wouldn’t be able to reach out and pluck the strange, silver flowers. “At that point our mother had been dead many long years, and Thorin hadn’t the foggiest idea about what a proper Dwarven lady needed for her independence. I found out later that he and Frerin spent six months roaming about Erebor interviewing nearly every Dwarrowdam in the mountain trying to decide what to get me so they could show me how much they valued me as their companion and equal.”

 

“What did Frerin get you?”

 

Dis gave him a vicious smirk. Out of one of the pockets (hopefully not the same pocket that this lovely brush had been in) she whipped out a throwing knife. “He crafted me a complete set of throwing knives and another of dueling knives.”

 

Bilbo stared at the knife’s glinting edge and realized he had no idea what sort of compliment to give on the quality. Instead he cocked his head to the side and murmured, “Well that was clever of them. One gift to show they love you as a Dwarrowdam, and another to show they love you as a warrior.”

 

Dís’s returning smile was fierce and pleased. “I thought so too.”

 

Now that Bilbo had seen the brush—a far better example of Thorin’s work—Dís began to work the brush through his curls with gentle strokes. “I had thought to bring you Thorin’s brush, but for all I love my brother, he is terrible at tending to things so personal. I swear, if he didn’t hear me lecturing my boys about it ten times a day he’d forget to braid his own hair. His brush is _wood_ if you can believe it, and the bristles have all but fallen out.” Bilbo gave a hmm of affirmation, while he and his cousins exchanged a look that agreed they ought to keep Hobbit’s general fondness for wooden implements to themselves. “At the very least I think I might have shamed him into something better with the thought of such a scraggly thing touching your hair.”

 

Bilbo fought back a blush. “We Hobbits tend to focus more on the hair on our feet than the hair on our heads.”

 

“That will have to be remedied,” Dís laughed. “Frerin and Dwalin have take to teasing Thorin about his quest to discover the precise name for your hair color. I do believe that he finds your curls too fascinating too ignore.”

 

Had Bilbo not been under Dís’s brush, he would’ve buried his face in his hands from the embarrassment. As it was, Drogo piped up, “Toffee, actually. It’s a particularly Baggins strain of color.” Adalgrim rolled his eyes since Drogo’s hair was his mother’s own Bolger Black. (Adalgrim was quite content with his own chestnut brown, thank you very much, since it meant it was far easier for him to slip away into a sea of Tooks and keep from getting caught.)

 

“Toffee?” Dís quirked an eyebrow.

 

“Yes, toffee. Just like his father, and his father before him, and his father before him.”

 

Bilbo did drop his face to his hands at that, and as expected, Dís gave him a little thump with the back of the brush to get him back up into position. “I do believe that is a perfect description, Drogo. Though you’ll forgive me if I hold off on sharing it with Thorin until I need to startle him out of an argument?”

 

“Delighted to be of help, Dís.”

 

The Dwarflings giggled at the strangeness of adults, but they settled into expectant silence when Dís handed Fili her brush. “For the most part our braids are simple things. After all, we’re far too busy to spend our time staring at one another’s hair in order to impart any particular kind of information. Unlike Elves and their incessant need to wear crowns everywhere, and change their robes to suit their particular breed, we believe that if other Dwarves don’t know who you are from name alone, then you’re obviously not worth knowing.”

 

With Bilbo’s hair brushed and a basic explanation given, Dís took out a thin comb with a long tail and used it to separate the strip of Bilbo’s bangs from the rest of his hair. Kili popped up, nearly vibrating with excitement that he got to help someone else fuss over their hair rather than deal with his. “While most Dwarves choose whatever braid they’d like for the day, a bonding braid must always be done in knots. And why is that Kili?”

 

“Because it shows how two people have chosen to be bound together, and takes two pairs of hands to properly do,” Kili piped up.

 

“Precisely, love.” Bilbo could feel the tail of the comb running along his skin, separating out a strip of hair, only to tug it tight and pass the loose ends down to Kili’s steady hands. As she went, Dís wove in the loose ends farther down the braid, tying it all up in a knotwork of hair. She wound the braid across the length of Bilbo’s forehead, then down to his left temple before she held out a hand for one of the beads to fasten it. Bilbo peeled open his fingers and plucked out the bead that had settled on top.

 

He gave the etched rune a long look and Dís murmured, “That rune says _shaker_. It is the sign for cleverness.”

 

“That means one of the things that Thorin loves most about our Bilbo is that he’s clever?” Drogo checked.

 

Adalgrim wanted to say something naughty, Bilbo could see it in the little smirk he donned before opening his mouth. Bilbo kicked out and caught Adalgrim hard in the knee, all without moving his head and upsetting the precious balance of braiding.

 

Fili then hopped to his feet to help his mother with the second braid, this time over Bilbo’s right ear. Kili stayed pressed to his brother’s side, like he wanted to be there in case Fili came down with a case of stage fright and he needed to take over. The braid followed the same pattern as before and ended with Bilbo handing Kili a bead to pass to his mother. “This rune reads _bukhubâl_ , which in the common tongue means fearless.”

 

“Fearless?” Bilbo absolutely did not squeak in surprise that such a word could be used on any Hobbit, let alone on him.

 

This time Adalgrim would not be denied. “Bilbo,” he scoffed, “do I need to pull out the map and remind you how far away from home we are? And remind you how many of our people have ever been so far from home before? None, Bilbo. The answer to that question is none.”

 

“That doesn’t mean—”

 

“If there weren’t children in the line of fire I would throw something you at you right now, Bil. To love at all is an act of fearlessness, and to think anything else is to do a disservice to you both.”

 

It said something about the kind of show Adalgrim put on that his cousins were actually surprised when he pulled out such a serious answer. He was a clever Hobbit with a good heart, but deep understanding of Hobbit nature (and Dwarf nature now) was not usually part of his skills. Yet the advice was sound, and Bilbo gave his cousin a slow nod of acceptance. Bilbo didn’t feel particularly fearless, but he supposed that for Thorin he could learn to be.

 

All together Dís and the boys put in a third braid on the other side of Bilbo’s head, pulling the hair up to expose his ears. Soon enough Fili held out his hand for the final bead. The lad gave a grin at whatever he saw. Kili giggled as well, and Bilbo didn’t need to look to know that Dís had her own secret smile at the rune. “This last reads _duruj_ , which has no direct translation into the common tongue. If one were to try, perhaps the closest would be ‘surprising.’”

 

“And the not closest thing?”

 

“I think it would be better to focus on how much my brother adores your strange Hobbit traits. Bilbo would’ve asked for something more than that, but Dís put a mirror in his hands to distract him. And distracting it was. With Dís’s skill, the three braids circled the whole of Bilbo’s head, giving his usual tangles the appearance of a crown. For all that Dis mocked her brothers about their lack of subtlety, she wasn’t much better. But there were beads in his hair that had been crafted by Thorin’s own hand, and tonight he was going to be bonded, and nothing else mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Don’t go looking up these translations. The dictionary I use didn’t have the words I wanted so I had to play fast and loose with the actual meanings of words. Lets all pretend that meaning in Khuzdul is all about the proper inflection.


	18. Chapter 18

Beads and braids seemed terribly far away by the time Elevensies rolled around.

 

Balin had come to fetch Bilbo when the Orcs were just visible on the horizon. Thorin, Frerin, Dwalin, and the whole of the army had spent the morning marking outside the gates of Erebor in preparation for the oncoming assault. Bilbo had been kept inside until the last possible moment because it wouldn’t help things to have Thorin trying to command his troops under the watchful, worrying eye of his Guide. Thorin had agreed that Bilbo needed to wait near the battlements so he could pop out and tempt Azog at just the right moment, but that didn’t mean Thorin wanted his Guide exposed to war any more than he had to be.

 

Bilbo had objected to Thorin being the one to decide what Bilbo could and could not be exposed to, but every Dwarf, Elf, and Wizard had taken Thorin’s side on the matter. (Gandalf had said battles were ugly things, and the world would be better served if fewer people were exposed to them. “You should count yourself among the lucky, Master Baggins, that you are so well regarded that the Dwarves want to spare you the trauma of war.”)

                                                                                                                            

It was difficult to argue after that.

 

But, as Balin led him to his position, Bilbo still considered all the worries to be a bit silly. Balin gave Bilbo a moment to glance out before he was settled into his position above the mountain’s main gate. The actual field of battle was so far away from the mountain that Bilbo could barely see a thing. The Dwarves had given themselves enough distance that they could have room to protect both Erebor and Dale, even if they had to give away ground. Had Bilbo not been a Guide, he wouldn’t have been able to pick out any of his Dwarves. Bilbo chalked this up to another instance of Dwarves just being Dwarves, odd creatures that they were.

 

Why, the whole journey up from the bowels of the mountain, what Dwarves there were still out and about had offered Bilbo bows so genuine they made him a bit uncomfortable. He hoped they took his expression as concern over Thorin rather than upset with them for being polite. (Though the minute he married Thorin, Bilbo was going to do away with whatever Dwarven tradition made genuflecting an appropriate hello.)

 

There was no way to know how good Azog’s sight was, so Bilbo needed to be in his hiding place before they expected the Orcs to come into a Sentinel’s sight range. Bilbo spent the sparse moment he was given out in the open to narrow his instincts on Thorin. The Sentinel was at the head of his forces, rallying them with Khuzdul words of fire and fervor. Bilbo didn’t need to understand a bit of it to feel the courage of the army below him, and their resolve to see Thorin through this battle.

 

Bilbo brushed gentle fingers across his Sentinel’s mind, trying not to press in when Thorin’s attention needed to be focused on preparing himself for the coming onslaught. Through their connection Bilbo felt Thorin sigh at the touch, closing his eyes and turning his face up towards the sun. Thorin seemed to delight in finding ever more grandiose ways of calling Bilbo spectacular, and Bilbo could feel Thorin’s impulse to liken Bilbo to the warmth of the sun. Bilbo scoffed as best as he was able to with nothing but his mind (which happened to be quite well, actually) and poked Thorin to send him back to work. Bilbo didn’t need his eyes to know that Thorin chuckled, and gave Bilbo the mental equivalent of pressing a kiss to his curls before closing down the link.

 

Bilbo didn’t like it, but he bit back his displeasure before he shared it with Thorin. They’d had their argument about Thorin coddling Bilbo to protect his Hobbit sensibilities, but even Bilbo could admit that there were a multitude of better reasons than simple fussing for why Thorin would want to keep his Guide out of his head when he was in the middle of a battle. So Bilbo stuffed away his worry and let Balin tuck him into position.

 

Bilbo stood with his back pressed to one of the massive pillars that separated the interior of the mountain from the battlements that overlooked the main gate. In the same position at the pillars beside him, were Elrohir and Elrond, with all their Elven companions spread out along the row in the both directions. Azog was many things, but stupid was not among them. He had to know the Elves were in Erebor since he’d chased them across the mountains. But no one with sense would expect the Elves to fight beside the Dwarves, even against so fearsome a foe. If Azog caught sight of the Elven archers waiting for him, Thorin would never be able to force Azog close enough to the mountain for them to send a killing arrow.

 

The battlements were lined with Dwarven archers, ostensibly there to pick off any Orc that got too close. In truth, they were there to act as a shield for Balin. The Dwarf had been close to furious when he discovered that he’d been the one nominated to stand amongst the archers, but he was the only one of Thorin’s companions who’d actually done more than the most basic of archery training (and the only one other than Thorin who’d held a bow anytime in the last decade). It was Balin’s job to stand there with a bow and not look too obvious about being uncomfortable while he served as the Elves’s eyes. Balin would make the final decision about whether or not Azog was close enough for the hidden Elves to appear and make their shot. (And to decide if Bilbo was needed to force Azog into range.) 

 

With no sight to help him along and his silence of the utmost necessity, Bilbo was left to try and piece together the events on the battlefield for himself. Bilbo couldn’t even begin to calculate how long it would take an Orc army to cross the plains around Erebor, so he took the clenching in his gut to be nothing but nerves. At least, he did until the lurking sense of trouble that had been chasing him all morning began to take shape.

 

Bilbo could feel a grasping, voracious hunger come nearer and nearer the mountain, and when an unnatural stillness descended over the battlefield, Bilbo didn’t need to look to know that Azog had come. Bilbo could forgive Thorin for trying to keep him from any awareness of the battle, because Bilbo had kept from his Sentinel that Azog had spent the journey here casting out his mind, searching for the Guide who had slipped through his mountains. Had Thorin known that detail, he would have charged off to find the pale Orc and kill him rather than wait for the Orc to come to him. But now, with Azog smirking at him across the plain, Thorin could sense Azog’s own Sentinel senses grasping for Bilbo.

 

Some part of Bilbo had expected the two Sentinels to shout at one another before the battle began, since that was how these things always went in storybooks. But Bilbo supposed there was no point to such a thing when one commander was a prince of the line of Durin and the other commander was an Orc who had sworn to wipe out that whole family. And, Bilbo didn’t think Thorin would willingly exchange words with any thing he found sniffing around Bilbo’s mind. No, without a word spared between either species, the battle broke out.

 

Bilbo could barely breathe with the thunder of clashing steel below him. There were Orcish shrieks of fury, and every time a Dwarf cried out in pain, Bilbo fought back a whimper of his own. These were his people, his Dwarves, all down there fighting and dying because Azog hungered for that which he could not have. 

 

Bilbo pressed himself back against the stone pillar that kept him hidden, trying to feel the hum and pulse of the mountain that all Dwarves seemed to sense without effort. He reached to the mountain’s roots that he might be buoyed up by his Sentinel’s home, that it might distract him from the Dwarves dying down there because Bilbo was here. He felt the cool of the stone beneath his palms and wrapped thick layers of wool around his thoughts, keeping himself tucked away from Azog’s clutching claws and the worry Thorin couldn’t put aside. Bilbo closed himself off for Thorin’s own protection, and a howl cut through the air.

 

It ripped across the battlefield, straight to Bilbo’s ears, and he didn’t need to feel the crushing in his chest to know that it was Thorin.

 

Bilbo’s world shuddered to a stop and he stumbled around the pillar that he had sworn to stay behind until Balin called for him. As he twisted past, Bilbo could see Elrond reach out to grab him, then force his hand to a stop before he breached the boundary of his hiding place. Worse still, in that breath Bilbo could see the way Elrond’s eyes twisted in grief. His Sentinel hearing and a thousand lifetimes experience knew better than Bilbo’s heart what had happened. Bilbo doubled his haste and slammed chest first into the battlement’s edge. His heart found Thorin before his eyes did, and when his eyes caught up, he wanted to unsee.

 

Thorin stood alone against Azog, the Dwarf darting down and away to avoid the great smashing blows of Azog’s mace. What blows he couldn’t avoid, Thorin caught hard on the face of his Oaken shield. For all he twisted and lunged to fight against a creature nearly twice his size, Thorin refused to give up any ground. He couldn’t, because prostrate on the blood-soaked earth behind him, was his brother.

 

Frerin’s golden hair lay around his pale face like a twisted sort of halo. Mud and blood marred his steady features, deforming them, and making it seem as though the ground was hungering to suck him down to his grave already. The metal mail covering his chest jutted up in miniature mountains, shattered under the force of one precise blow. In between those steel crags were red rivers of blood gurgling up from puncture wounds.

 

Bilbo felt Balin’s hands clench around his biceps, trying to wrench him out of sight. He fought against the grip and stumbled back to the stone edge, screaming for Frerin to get back to his feet. On the wind, Azog heard the call, and turned his pointed leer up to Bilbo. The Orc took a halfhearted swing at Thorin to demand the Dwarf’s attention, and growled something that across the rage of battle was beyond Bilbo’s hearing. Whatever it was ended on a hiss, and in reply Bilbo felt something in Thorin twist beyond recognition.

 

All that was Dwarven in Thorin, and all that might have been Hobbit, were ripped away until the only thing left was instinct. 

 

Thorin felt like an open wound in Bilbo’s mind, his heart thrashing and screaming at the smell of his brother’s blood on the air and the sound of his Guide’s voice on the wind. Bilbo had heard Men and Elves whisper about such a state, about Sentinels who lost control over their reasoning and went feral. No Hobbit in recorded history had ever done such a thing, but Bilbo could think of no better name for it. Thorin felt wild and irrepressible, with not an inch of the control that had defined his presence in Bilbo’s mind.

 

Without words, Bilbo reached out for his Sentinel, sharing in his pain, and sharing in his rage. Hobbits didn’t indulge in such emotions. They nurtured the peaceful and the composed, the bright, living forces of the world that healed things and brought them back to the new life of Spring.

 

But Bilbo Baggins had never been a very good Hobbit.

 

Instead of quelling Thorin’s hate, he embraced it. He stoked it. With Bilbo’s help, Thorin’s wrath grew roots and drove him to charge Azog with a fierce bellow. He ducked beneath the swinging mace and slipped through Azog’s space to slash across his chest. Thorin rolled out of range before Azog could recover and stabbed at the Orc’s back. Azog crashed around one thick elbow and caught Thorin in the side of the head, forcing him to the ground. Had Thorin still been driven by sense, he would have rolled to the side, or taken the barest of moments for his head to steady before he moved, trusting in Azog’s pride to buy him time. But Thorin was not himself at the moment.

 

Or perhaps, he was more himself than he had ever been before.

 

Instead of rolling away, Thorin rolled towards his enemy. He thrust his sword up and under Azog’s ribs, getting a kick in his own ribs for the strike. The punt forced Thorin away, losing his sword and leaving it behind in Azog’s chest.

 

Bilbo didn’t see what happened next, because long arms wrapped around his chest and gathered him up. He fought against the grip, not wanting to be taken any further away from his Sentinel, but the arms lifted him into the air, and then carried him over the battlements. The fall went too fast for Bilbo to realize that he was dropping, or for him to wonder what might happen on the other end. Instead he found himself tucked into a roll when Elven feet hit the ground beneath them, and then they began running with Bilbo still held tight. Elrond leapt down beside Bilbo, taking the forward position and leaving Elrohir to take the rear while Elladan carried Bilbo to his Sentinel.

 

Orcs parted before them like sun-warmed butter, cut down by Elrond’s sword. In the distance, for the first time in his existence, Azog’s height worked against him, because one arrow after another flew from Elrohir’s bow and littered Azog’s back with wounds. He was still a massive creature, fueled by nothing but his hate, and he pressed on through the pain, hefting up his mace to do the same to Thorin as he had done to Frerin. A rain of arrows punctured Azog’s wrist and hand, disrupting his grip. But despite giving a twisted howl, he raised the mace again.

 

Another arrow would fly, and with Bilbo in the back of his mind pushing him on, Thorin would roll out of the way, damaging himself in the process, but saving his own life. Perhaps Elrohir would be able to kill the Orc before he had the chance to land a blow, or maybe Elrond and his flashing sword would slice Azog’s head from his body. But both of these were chances Bilbo could not take.

 

Bilbo knew full well the path that Thorin had taken to his mind when Bilbo had felt that horrible fear of impending death at that fist of a Troll. When the Elves had thought Bilbo wasn’t listening, they called it a Sentinel’s gift of last resort. It wasn’t taught and it wasn’t encouraged, because at its core it was nothing but a Sentinel pulling on their Guide’s gifts with life and using that gift for perverted ends, twisting it against its purpose and using it to take a life instead. It was a thing only done when a Sentinel was about to die, and even then the Sentinel usually died anyway. (Whether the death came from the strength it took to kill with will, or because such a twisting of the gift broke the bond between Sentinel and Guide, no one knew. And no one was willing to ask.)

 

In desperation for Bilbo, Thorin had worked things the opposite way. He’d broken down his own mind to give Bilbo the strength he needed to turn his gift to violence and kill a Troll. And with his Hobbit coming up hard on fast on Azog’s back, Thorin did it again.

 

Trapped in the Stones and half a world away from Bilbo, doing this had felt like ripping out a piece of his soul and throwing it so hard his arm heaved out of its socket. But doing it a few hundred yards away when his ribs were already snapped and his brother had died for him not ten feet away, it felt like a kiss goodbye. With all his love, Thorin let what strength remained in him slip from his fingers and drop into Bilbo’s soul, and Bilbo welcomed it in with open arms.

 

As Elrohir’s next arrow flew, so did Bilbo’s heart. He hadn’t known what he was doing when he lashed out at the Troll that tried to eat his cousins, just followed the instinct Thorin gave him. But he knew full well what he was doing now. Bilbo had told the Troll to stop, that Hobbits were not for eating and that if Bilbo had his way that creature would never eat another thing again.

 

Now just the same, Bilbo reached out and told Azog that he had lifted that Mace for the last time. Never again would he crush a Dwarf’s chest, and never again would he hunt the line of Durin. They were Bilbo’s family now, and a Baggins protected their own. Azog felt the truth of it slip through his ribs like the sharpest of daggers and it plunged into his useless heart.

 

Azog stumbled, staring down at his chest, expecting the pain to be from a perfectly placed arrow. But there was no wound, no blood, and before Azog could try and puzzle it out, he slumped to the ground, a threat no more. 

 

Considering how tightly Elladan gripped Bilbo to his chest, Bilbo supposed that this was the point in the story where he was supposed to fall unconscious, only to wake days later and find Thorin waiting at his bedside. (Or, if this were one of the more heart-wrenching stories, Dís would somehow force out the words to tell Bilbo that Thorin had followed his brother to the ground.) But if actually being witness to a battle had taught Bilbo anything, it was that the stories were wrong.

 

Bilbo shimmied himself out of Elladan’s grip and darted over to Frerin. From the corner of his eye he could see the Orcs already in retreat, but still some of the Dwarves had formed a wall around their fallen commanders to protect them from further harm before the healers could reach them.

 

Bilbo dropped to his knees beside Frerin and pressed steady hands to the mountains and rivers of his chest. Like Halfred Greenhand had taught him, Bilbo reached out for the seed of life and prodded it with nurturing fingers, encouraging it to grow. Bilbo might never have done particularly well with tomatoes or corn or cabbage, but when the seed was the life of a Dwarf that Bilbo considered his one and only brother, things made a bit more sense.

 

Like the vegetables never had, life unfurled in Frerin, reaching deep into the earth to make strong roots, and up to the sky to drink in light. Like the soil should have, Frerin’s insides straightened themselves into the proper order, perfectly spaced and watered seeds becoming knit ribs and whole lungs. With a brush of his palm, Bilbo smoothed out Dwarven skin like a Hobbit was meant to mound dirt above a newly planted seed.

 

Bilbo gave an accomplished pat to the untouched flesh of Frerin’s chest and lurched back to his feet. He stumbled his way around Azog’s still body, determined not to sully his feet by touching that creature. Bilbo lamented that getting rid of that oaf hadn’t tired him out nearly so much as stitching Frerin back together. Though, Bilbo enjoyed the thought of teasing the Dwarf about being more of a bother than his family’s own archenemy. Yes, yes, he would tease Frerin for that, right after he took a bit of a nap.

 

Bilbo staggered his way to Thorin and dropped to his knees beside his Sentinel. Armor was not the most comfortable thing in the world, but as Bilbo curled up against Thorin’s side and pillowed his head on Thorin’s shoulder, he supposed that there were worse places to be. After all, Thorin wasn’t a rock. Underneath the broken armor Bilbo could feel the steady rise and fall of Thorin’s chest, and the thrum of his heartbeat in time with Bilbo’s own. In exchange for that, Bilbo could manage to endure the discomfort. 


	19. Chapter 19

It took Bilbo a bit longer than it should have for him to realize that he was awake.

 

He supposed that he could be excused for mistake since he drifted back to awareness in precisely the same position he’d been in when he slipped away to sleep. His head was still cradled on Thorin’s shoulder, and his body was pressed up against Thorin’s side, but now there was no armor in the way. It was the comfort more than anything that convinced Bilbo he really ought to open his eyes and figure out what was going on. If he didn’t wake up soon, there was a chance that Bilbo was going to spend the rest of his life in this lovely dream about being curled up beside his Sentinel with nothing between them but Thorin’s bare skin. (Though Bilbo was Hobbit enough to admit to himself that if Thorin wasn’t actually there when he woke, the was a very real possibility that Bilbo was going to tear down the mountain around Thorin’s ears.)

 

Bilbo felt, more than heard, Thorin’s chuckle. “I have no doubt that you could accomplish such a thing if I irritated you enough.”

 

Bilbo smiled against Thorin’s chest. “Considering that I’ve been irritated with you for several days now, you should count yourself lucky that I’ve chosen to let you get away with so much.”

 

Thorin went still, both body and mind. Had Bilbo been less pleased, the silence might have stretched on long enough for him to get nervous. But as it was, he kept his eyes closed and let Thorin have the time he needed to articulate. “I will never, no matter how long I live, be able to thank you enough for what you have done for my people.”

 

Bilbo scoffed at such lofty words, and tried to slip away from Thorin to conceal his pleased blush. Thorin tightened his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and tucked the Hobbit back against his side. “Don’t do that. Don’t demure. You saved my life today, and the life of my brother, and the whole line of Durin, and every Dwarf on that battlefield. That is something any person should be proud of.”

 

What Bilbo wanted was to scold Thorin for being overly dramatic, but the mention of Frerin’s name stuck the words in his throat. Bilbo braced himself up on Thorin’s chest to be sure he could look the Dwarf straight in the eye. “Is he well, then? He survived?”

 

Thorin rested his hand atop Bilbo’s, securing the Hobbit in place. “He is better off then when he stepped on the field. You put his chest back together.”

 

Bilbo puffed out a relieved sigh and dropped down on Thorin like he was a pillow. “Oh thank goodness. I’d never have forgiven myself if I did him more harm than good. Though make no mistake, I will certainly have words with your brother about tiring me out with his ridiculous behavior.”

 

Thorin stilled again, and Bilbo was beginning to notice a pattern here. He popped his head up to meet Thorin’s gaze, sparing a thought to appreciate how his hips pressed down on Thorin with the motion. “What’s wrong? You said Frerin was fine.”

 

Thorin cleared his throat. “He is.”

 

“Elrond?”

 

“Unharmed.”

 

Bilbo pursed his lips in impatience. “Elladan? Elrohir? Dwalin? Balin? Glóin? Dori? Óin? Kaib? Who was hurt?”

 

Despite Bilbo’s position designed to make Thorin look at him, the Dwarf seemed determined to keep his eyes on the ceiling. Bilbo could admit that the glowing rocks above them were quite beautiful, but not worthy of such devotion. A few days ago he would have teased Thorin about his silence in the hope of drawing out more words than the Dwarf was naturally prone to share, but today he murmured, “Thorin, you’re scaring me.”

 

Thorin clung tighter to his Hobbit and puffed out a sigh so deep Bilbo could feel Thorin’s ribs dip beneath him. “Not one of them left the battle with injuries.”

 

“Well then why in the world…” Bilbo tried to scold, but the strange phrasing put him off. “If they’re all well, why do you sound so unsure?”

 

“Bilbo, not a single Dwarf was counted as injured.”

 

“Well that’s… remarkable, then.”

 

“Impossible, Bilbo. It was impossible.”

 

“Well it obviously wasn’t that impossible since it happened.”  Bilbo knew there was something here he was missing, but if it made Thorin hesitant, Bilbo wasn’t sure if he wanted to know about it.

 

Bilbo mind was an open book to his Sentinel, and the moment Thorin caught the twist of fear in Bilbo, Thorin rolled them, Bilbo pressed firmly and protectively beneath Thorin’s bulk. The Dwarf hovered above Bilbo, this black hair falling in a curtain around their faces so that Bilbo had no place else to look but Thorin’s sincere eyes. “It wasn’t Frerin that exhausted you, it was all of them.”

 

“I don’t—what are you talking about?”

 

“When you stitched my brother back together, you reached out and did the same for every Dwarf. There were soldiers bleeding and dying all over the field, and while your focus was on Frerin, you put them all back together.”

 

That sounded like absolute hogwash to Bilbo, he couldn’t even get a seed bloom properly. But Thorin looked so sincere, and the more he thought about it, the more Bilbo admitted that he had treated Frerin’s wound like it was just another seed he was nurturing in the planted row. Bilbo couldn’t imagine that he might have reached out to the whole row of Dwarven wounds, but Thorin wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t true. “Are you sure?” Bilbo asked, unsure whether or not he wanted Thorin to be speculating.

 

“The Elves confirmed it. All of Lord Elrond’s gifts with healing were taught to him by his wife, and he said you did just the same as she did for him after a battle.”

 

“But—”

 

“You are a healer, Bilbo Baggins. The Elves doubt that if it had been any Dwarf other than Frerin or I wounded on the field that your instincts would’ve overridden your sense and led you to heal when you had no training, but that’s what you did.” Thorin slipped a hand up to Bilbo’s face and brushed aside that curls that had tumbled into his eyes during their roll. “I should’ve known. After all, that’s what you’ve been doing for me my whole life.”

 

Bilbo pressed into the touch, and Thorin spread his hand to cradle Bilbo’s cheek in his palm. “How?”

 

“I am the first in the line of Durin to show no signs of gold sickness. Your touch to my mind has freed me from my family’s curse and allowed me to become the first Sentinel in centuries. You healed my soul and my family of an illness that has all but destroyed us.” Bilbo tried to interrupt, certain that he would combust under the praise, but Thorin pressed on. “You healed my inborn hatred of Elves, and with that you healed the relationship between my people and theirs. Never once has any creature with sense thought that there might actually be something more than a reluctant peace between Elves and Dwarves, and you changed that.”

 

Bilbo arched up and pressed a swift kiss to Thorin’s lips to still his mouth. Instinct carried Bilbo to wrap his arms around the Dwarf’s neck and pull him down to deepen the kiss, bringing Thorin’s chest against Bilbo’s and his comforting weight down on the Hobbit. The kiss went from brief to messy before Bilbo even realized what he’d begun. It was harsh, with bumped noses sloppy open-mouthed kisses that crushed Bilbo to Thorin’s chest. Each of them was too caught up in the rush of being able to freely touch to bother with control. Far sooner than Bilbo would’ve liked, Thorin slumped away from the kiss, pressing his nose to the hollow under Bilbo’s chin and sucking in deep, panting breaths. Bilbo thunked his head back against the stone, and only now that he’d regained control over his senses did he notice the rocks digging in to his back.

 

Bilbo supposed that they actually ought to have a conversation about how he and Thorin had ended up in the Stones. More specifically, how they had ended up mostly unclothed and in one of the pools scattered through the room. (Bilbo decided it would be in his best interest not to wonder how he’d managed to not notice the nudity and the water for quite so long. Really, there was no way that would reflect well on him.) “I was under the impression that the Stones were just for Sentinels and Guides who needed help balancing out their senses until they found their match. So what are _we_ doing down here?”

 

There was something rather pointed about the way Thorin didn’t answer that question. “Thorin? Thorin, is everything alright?” Bilbo tried to nudge his Sentinel back up to actually look at him, but Thorin was a lump that would not be moved from his sprawl. Bilbo could feel no pain and no sorrow from Thorin, but he could catch traces of embarrassment. “Thorin Oakenshield, what did you do?”

 

“Nothing,” he grumbled, tracing his hand along Bilbo’s side to distract him.

 

Bilbo snatched up the hand and put it back in the safe territory out to the side and demanded, “Nothing my furry feet, what did you do?”

 

“My reaction when you dropped down beside me on the battlefield might have been… severe.”

 

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and insisted on something more accurate than that. Thorin puffed out a sigh and conceded, “I might have attacked Elrond when he tried to take you from me.”

 

Bilbo buried his face in Thorin’s hair with a mixture of a giggles and a groans. “What possessed you?”

 

“You were unconscious—”

 

“And you lost your temper when Elrond tried to treat me?”

 

“Something like that,” Thorin grumbled.

 

“Just _how_ like that?”

 

Thorin all but curled up on top of Bilbo to conceal his mortification. “I put myself between you and him and attacked him with one of my daggers.”

 

Bilbo ought to have scolded Thorin, he really should, but all he could do was laugh. He’d seen both Thorin and Elrond in battle and knew they were both fierce warriors, but still he could not wrap his mind around the thought of either of them actually attacking one another. The possibility of it was so foreign to him that he couldn’t even visualize it without the whole things sounding ridiculous.

 

“I’ll have you know that I was a fierce defender.” Thorin sounded just as amused as Bilbo.

 

“I believe you, though I honestly can’t imagine the two of you in an actual fight. A war of words perhaps, but nothing so vulgar as weapons.”

 

“Yes, well, if Gandalf hadn’t gotten in a lucky strike with his staff then I imagine things would have gotten far more vulgar than they actually did.”

 

Bilbo absolutely did not snicker at the thought of Thorin being taken down by wizened old Gandalf. Instead, he stroked soft fingers through Thorin’s hair, working out the tangles from his damp curls. The wet flattened Thorin’s hair, streaking black lines across the tanned muscles of his back. Given that Thorin was on top of him and quite a bit thicker than Bilbo as well, that meant Bilbo had to peek through the cleft between Thorin’s shoulder blades to get the whole view of his Dwarf. He followed the smooth line of Thorin’s spine down to the dip of his lower back and the dimples that marked the spot where his back turned to something else. With sensitive fingers Bilbo traced that path down, then followed it back up with a firmer touch now that he’d gained a little confidence. For all the thick muscle that lined Thorin’s ribs, Bilbo could still feel the sharp lines of Thorin’s shoulder blades, and idly wondered how much pie it would take to get Thorin properly plumped up.

 

Thorin groaned out something that was mostly chuckle, but still pained. “My fierce little Guide you may be, but I’m still trying to be gentle with you. And you are not making it easy.”

 

Bilbo seized the crown of Thorin’s hair and pulled the Dwarf up to look him in the eye. It was difficult to glower with the long line of Thorin’s bulk weighing down on Bilbo’s skin, but Bilbo gave it his best effort. “You can’t scold me into doing otherwise, Bilbo. You’ve never lain with anyone outside your own species, and I won’t ruin things for either of us with my impatience.”

 

“Well, if you’d like, I could go experiment with another Dwarf?” Bilbo teased, but Thorin wasn’t in the mood to find the humor in it. Bilbo could feel the wildness that had consumed Thorin in battle now creeping in at the edges of his mind. No matter what Bilbo might say on the matter, Thorin would never forgive himself if he lost control so early in their relationship (though Bilbo had made it a life goal to get Thorin there at some point).

 

Instead, Bilbo shifted his hand away from his grip on Thorin’s hair and cradled the hard planes of Thorin’s face in his own soft, palms. “You strengthen me, you know. If I’ve healed you, you’re what has kept me whole. I didn’t think I’d survive it after my parents died, they’d been everything to me. But there you were. Even when I thought you were nothing but my own poor mind trying to give me a reason to go on, you stayed beside me. You gave me hope.”

 

Thorin pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead and murmured, “I only wish I might have done more.”

 

“You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. I spent so long wondering if you were real that now I’m grateful to have you at all, no matter how much time we might be given.”

 

They were such simple words, but something in Thorin unclenched at them. He dropped another shaky kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, then another to the apple of Bilbo’s cheek, to the tip of his nose, to his lips. Bilbo pressed up to deepen the kiss into something like before, but Thorin pulled back before that could begin. He stayed close, forehead touching forehead, sharing heavy breaths. “Bilbo Baggins, you are the steel in my sword, the fire of the forge, and the very heart of me. You are my One, my _Duninel_ , and I beg you to let me spend my life with you. To let marry you. To bond with me.”

 

Bilbo could barely speak through the smile that split his face. “Thorin Oakenshield, you are the butter to my bread, the sun in the sky, and the first blossom of spring. You are my One and my Sentinel, and I can’t imagine a life that doesn’t have you in it. I would bond with you this very moment if I didn’t think just saying the words aloud would jinx us both and put off the bonding for another three days.”

 

Thorin’s laugh echoed through the room, bright and honest. Bilbo felt the vibration of it work its way through his ribs and into his heart. “I find that I am in the mood to endure no more interruptions, _Dunin_ Baggins.”

 

“I believe you and I have different definitions about what constitutes an interruption, Sentinel Oakenshield. I consider _everything_ an interruption, and you keep insisting that there be a wedding.”

 

Thorin stacked his hands on Bilbo’s breastbone and rested his chin on the spot, casual as could be. “I believe that your kin gave me explicit instructions that we were to be wed before I so much as looked at you, on pain of losing my Dwarfhood.”

 

Bilbo hooked his knee around Thorin’s bare thigh, tugging them even closer at the hip. “I do believe that we’ve passed the looking stage.”

 

Thorin smirked, enjoying the chance to tease Bilbo without the threat of doom and loss lurking at the edge of their every move. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been a perfect gentledwarf this whole time. They stripped us down and put us together so that my senses would be able to find you without a struggle. They didn’t want me to wake feral like I was on the battlefield and do something that we might both regret in my urgency.”

 

“Ah, so me waking up naked and in your arms was nothing but an attempt to protect Elrond from your wrath?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

“Well then,” Bilbo put his hands to Thorin’s shoulders. “My nudity has served its purpose then, and I really ought to go get dressed. Perhaps I’ll meander out to your dining area and share in a lovely communal lunch with all the Dwarves you have roaming around here.”

 

Bilbo tried to press back on Thorin’s shoulders and shift away his bulk, but Thorin wasn’t having any of that. He kept his little smirk, but his hands slithered from Bilbo’s chest and latched on to his wrists, pinning them to the ground. Bilbo gave a little wriggle, deliberately sliding his bare skin up against Thorin. “No, no,” teased, “my nakedness has served its purpose. You said so. There’s not a single reason why I should be laid out beneath you without a speck of clothing to get in the way.” Bilbo tightened the leg he had around Thorin’s thigh and pressed up into the nonexistent space between them. “Unless of course, you’ve come up with something else we might do in this situation?”

 

Thorin wasn’t smiling anymore. Bilbo bumped his forehead against Thorin’s, reminding the Sentinel that this was a time for teasing, not for glowering. Bilbo wanted to make an offer to help Thorin relieve some of his tension, but he didn’t think the Dwarf would take it well. At the last wriggle Thorin had arched his spine to pull his hips away. Pressed belly to belly, Bilbo could still feel Thorin’s shallow, even breaths, he just couldn’t feel the heat of Thorin over his hips. What he did feel was the slightest pull of skin along his thighs, and the gentle lap of water along his sides and in that hollow space between them.

 

The subtle waves came from Thorin’s hips flinching up and down. He was able to stop himself from touching Bilbo but not to stop himself from the instinctive motion. Today they were alive, whole and hale after a battle that Bilbo had feared might kill them both.  It was officially the first day—or evening, Bilbo couldn’t tell such things inside the mountain—of the rest of their lives. And he refused to let their lives begin this way.

 

Bilbo spread open his mind and laid it out before Thorin like he’d done with his body. He pushed forward all his desire, not just to have Thorin in every possible way, but to have the bond. At this point a marriage was superfluous, and Bilbo didn’t care one whit whether it happened today or twenty years from today. But he did care that he had his bond with his Sentinel.

 

At the feel of Bilbo’s soul bared beneath him, Thorin thrummed like a plucked string. Perhaps they ought to have spent some time on words, discussing wants and needs and various life choices that they should be making together, but it was his Bilbo, and the Hobbit couldn’t have been clearer about what he wanted next.

 

Thorin settled the whole of his weight down on Bilbo and pressed his forehead against the Hobbit’s. The same instinct that had driven him on the battlefield reared up again and he knew precisely what to do. Like molten silver poured out to cool, Thorin could see into Bilbo’s heart. When the metal was spread flat, a smith could see the defects that would become part of the finished product if the smith didn’t purge them. There were no flaws to be found in Bilbo, but Thorin knew just the same that Bilbo was nervous about adapting to Dwarven culture, that he was determined not to give the other Guides the satisfaction of losing his temper, and that Bilbo truly and honestly didn’t care about a wedding. He’d long since passed the point where he held to the young, romantic notion that a wedding was what made for a happy union. (And lurking in the back of Bilbo’s mind was the fear that perhaps this was all a dream, and that if they kept putting off the bonding, fate would punish them both. Leaving Bilbo to wake back in his bed at Bag End, all alone.)

 

With Bilbo spread out before him like silver, in return Thorin opened his own mind and showed Bilbo everything. He had the vaguest sense of Bilbo seeing into him like the Hobbit saw into a book, with thick pages opened wide for perusal. Bilbo’s toes curled in pleasure at the free access to Thorin’s soul, but each of them held back. Their bodies touched, but they held their souls apart, hovering beside one another but not yet joining.

 

Thorin had spoken the ancient words—or at least, the best translation he could manage into the Common tongue—and Bilbo had replied. He had his Hobbit’s full and free consent, and could feel in his blood that Bilbo had been waiting for this his whole entire life. But still, Thorin hesitated. He was going to ask one last time, to be sure that so gentle a creature as Bilbo wanted to be bonded to him, but he caught a flash of Bilbo’s resignation, that the responsibility to begin their bonding would fall to him.

 

There was nothing to be done for it: Thorin fell.

 

Óin had described that first moment of bonding like getting hit broadside by a warhammer, and Kaib had described it much the same (only with far more cursing). But to Thorin, joining with Bilbo’s mind bore no trace of violence. If anything, it was like coming home. It was like stepping in to fire-warmed rooms at the end of a long day, with the spice of stew and the scent of fresh bread permeating the air. He could almost hear Frerin’s chuckle and Dís’s seldom-heard giggle on the air and feel Fili and Kili barrel into his ribs demanding hugs. Bonding was the dip in Bilbo’s cheeks when he smiled, the stonelight on his curls, the stubborn heave of his shoulders, and trying to name the color of his eyes.

 

From one breath to the next Thorin found himself wrapped around Bilbo, body and soul. It was as simple as that. They’d been on the cusp of bonding since the first moment Bilbo had put his fingers to Thorin’s skin, and it was only through a boundless amount of self control that Thorin had stopped himself from bonding them right there and then. They’d hovered on the edge of that bond ever since, and now that they let themselves, bonding was easy.

 

They shared heavy breaths, their skin tingling with the rush of a completed connection. Thorin could hear Bilbo’s heart beating in time with his own, while Bilbo could feel Thorin’s rare sense of peace. Thorin didn’t need to ask to understand that this was bonding in the manner of Hobbits, a gentle easing of two souls together, a final step of the path that they’d already been walking. Thorin couldn’t quite wrap his mind around a species that didn’t need sex to bond, but considering that he could still smell the deep scent of Bilbo’s arousal, he could adjust.

 

Thorin slipped into kisses that were devouring and whole-hearted, burning with the rush that came from knowing beyond all doubt that Bilbo was his and would be until the end of the world. He eased off the kiss and found Bilbo’s legs wrapped around his waist, and his Hobbit’s hands clenched in Thorin’s hair. (Thorin found that he had one arm braced across Bilbo’s shoulders to pull him in tighter, and another on Bilbo’s behind.) He breathed in the sure knowledge that Bilbo didn’t want to stop and teased, “You know that your Drogo is going to geld me for this, don’t you?”

 

Bilbo pulled Thorin back down and against Thorin’s lips he murmured, “That, my Sentinel, is a problem for tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's it. I've never been able to write sex scenes, and I decided this was not the time to try. 
> 
> Thank you to all the beautiful people who've been reading this! It means the world to me to know that people like it. There might be another story to follow this one, but at this point I don't know what that story would be about. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for reading!
> 
> ETA: Epilogue, and the sexy interlude you were all looking for. It is [The Wolf and the Fox](../../../1055969), lovingly written by badskippy


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with bonus epilogue.
> 
> And if you haven't seen badskippy's [The Wolf and The Fox](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1055969), which is the last chapter's sex scene, you really should go read it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the epilogue for all those beautiful readers who asked for one. Sorry this took me *so long* to get out to you. I actually hadn’t envisioned anything about this scene, so it took me quite a while to find it creatively. There will be a sequel to this, and in the process of replying to comments I managed to tease out what I think the main plot arc of that will be. I promise that anything you think is a loose thread here will be picked up there. However, don’t expect posts on the sequel until January. Between finals, relatives, applications, and my accidentally watching the entire first season of Hannibal this weekend, I imagine it will take me a while.

In a mess of haphazard kisses, Bilbo and Thorin staggered their way from the Stones to Thorin’s chambers. They took the hidden paths up through the mountain, ducking in to alcoves and darting around corners to sneak extra kisses along the way. By the time they stumbled through Thorin’s door, Bilbo had figured out the mechanics of Dwarven laces and had his palms pressed to the bare flesh of Thorin’s back in anticipation.

 

Bilbo planned on stripping away the shirt that risked its life by blocking Bilbo’s path, but a Dwarfling chose that moment to barrel into Bilbo’s side. “Uncle Bilbo!” shouted Fili, while Kili leapt into Thorin’s suddenly empty arms. The room was filled with their various friends and family members standing beneath a banner that wished Thorin and Bilbo a “Happy Bonding.” Bilbo flushed scarlet at their knowing grins, and tried to straighten out his own shirt and tuck things back into something resembling order.

 

Frerin wasn’t having any of that, and scooped the Hobbit up into a hug. “We figured the two of you wouldn’t be out of the Stones for a few days yet when you needed to stop for water and food. If we’d thought you were just coming upstairs to have your way with my brother on a bed… well, we’d probably have been here just the same. But maybe we would’ve covered the lads’ eyes before they got any ideas.”

 

Bilbo ignored the teasing and clung to Frerin in relief. He’d believed Thorin when he said that Frerin had survived the battle in one piece, but believing and seeing Frerin standing there and doing something more than just breathing were who entirely different things. While everyone was distracted by laughter, Frerin murmured, “Thank you, Bilbo. Thank you.”

 

In reply, what Bilbo said was, “Don’t be daft you silly Dwarf. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”  While what he meant was, “Don’t be daft, you’re my family.” Frerin could hear the difference.

 

It said something about how fond of his brother Thorin was that he didn’t wallop Frerin upside the back of his head for touching Bilbo so soon after their bonding. But Thorin still managed to peel Bilbo away and insert himself between the two, foisting off a child into Frerin’s arms. It wasn’t subtle at all, but since they’d all just interrupted Thorin dragging Bilbo to the bedroom for another round, everyone decided to let it slide. (Frerin still laughed at him though.)

 

Bilbo was passed from Dwarf to Dwarf to Elf for hugs and congratulations, with Thorin trailing along behind to protect him from too-long touches. It was difficult to take Thorin as a proper threat considering Kili had shimmied himself out of Bilbo’s arms and back into the crook of Thorin’s, while Fili had grabbed his uncle’s spare hand.

 

Along his route, Bilbo noticed the decorations around the room, he wasn’t blind after all, but it wasn’t until he got to Elrond’s warm embrace that he noticed the hats. Fili and Kili’s own tri-corner caps were something you’d often see on Hobbit children running through the Shire, so his mind hadn’t registered then as anything odd. Elrond though, Elrond was a lord of Elves, ones of the eldest creatures in Middle-earth, and he was wearing a crown made of something that even Bilbo could see was inferior metal. (That, and it was lopsided and dented, which Bilbo had considered impossible for Dwarven work.)

 

Thorin felt Bilbo cock his head to the side, and leaned forward to whisper, “We honor our children’s first attempts at smithing.” Judging by the twisting hats of various materials that adorned almost every head in the room, the boys had decided to spend their time worrying about Thorin and Bilbo in a productive manner. The hats appeared to be the Dwarven equivalent of a Hobbit’s flower crown woven for their celebrations.

 

Bilbo absolutely did not laugh at Elrond and his crown, nor did he say a thing about the tiara on Gandalf, but when Bilbo saw Drogo, he couldn’t help himself.

 

Somewhere along the way Adalgrim and his jauntily set pillbox hat had given Bilbo a smack on the back before diving back into his bottle, which meant Drogo was all alone in a chair at the far corner of the room. He’d been given a conical hennin, nearly as tall as the Dwarflings who’d mad it, with streamers tumbling down the sides. Apart from his crossed arms and lips pinched in displeasure, Drogo looked the picture perfect image of a storybook princess. Bilbo broke down into giggles at the sight of his proper, posh cousin with strips of fabric tumbling down into his eyes. “Oh yes, laugh all you want Bilbo Baggins, but you and I are never going to be forgiven for this!”

 

“Oh, come now, Drogo,” Bilbo tried to cajole, tossing an arm around the other Hobbit’s shoulders.

 

Drogo shrugged off the touch, refusing to be pacified. “I’d wager my best waistcoat that the moment Grandmother Baggins finds out about this she’ll have Gandalf get right back on his horse and bring her all the way to Erebor just so she can shout at you in person. And I can’t bring myself to imagine what she’ll do to Thorin for bonding with you before your wedding.”

 

Frerin, darling Frerin, who Bilbo supposed was going to spend the rest of his long life trying to apologize to Bilbo for the inconvenience of nearly dying, tugged Drogo to his side. This time the arm was too heavy to be rid of, and Drogo stiffened into a charming shade of pink the moment Frerin touched him. “Come now, Drogo. Your Grandmother Baggins won’t know Bilbo and Thorin bonded before they married unless you tell her. And I’m certain that you can keep details about things like that to yourself.” Frerin leaned in and brushed a thick thumb along the line of Drogo’s jaw, and the Hobbit turned the color of an overripe raspberry.

 

Bilbo’s brain stuttered to a stop. There was no way, no possible way in the whole of Middle-earth that that gesture could mean what it looked like it meant. There was no possibility Bilbo had been down in the Stones that long. Not a one. But… there was Drogo, staring at his feet with the tips of his ears flushed scarlet, but he wasn’t pulling away. And what was more, Bilbo could feel the hum of pleasure between them, a satisfaction tainted with Frerin’s resignation, and Drogo’s stifling Baggins sensibilities.

 

Bilbo gaped at them both, ready to demand to know what had come over Drogo and who Frerin thought he was, defiling Bilbo’s cousin like that. But before he could reacquaint himself with the part of his brain that used words, Bilbo got a handful of confetti to his face.

 

Fili giggled and took off to the far side of the room, hiding behind his mother who had a guiltily defiant expression for encouraging her son to head Bilbo off at the pass before he could say anything. Kili wriggled out of Thorin’s arms to join his brother in a confetti war, while the adults divided themselves between joining in and protecting their drinks. Bilbo had half a second to notice that Drogo was in the latter category, and Frerin watched him step away and take cover with pain in his eyes. For his distraction, Bilbo got confetti poured over his head like a burst of winter snow. He gave a glower at Dwalin for doing such a thing and tried to shuffle some of it out of his hair to very limited effect.

 

Dís gave the boys—both old and young—a few good moments of anarchy before she put her foot down and declared that to be enough. “Honestly you lot, we came here to celebrate with Bilbo and Thorin, not to make a mess of Thorin’s rooms.”

 

“Of course not, that’s what Bilbo and Thorin are going to do after we leave.” Frerin smirked, but there was a shadow to his eyes that he couldn’t quite dispel. Bilbo took a look around the room and decided that this was not the time to bring it up with him. Later he would find himself a tea kettle and coax out of Frerin an explanation for just what exactly had happened while he and Thorin were bonding. (And… doing other, post-bonding things.)

 

As it was, Dís smacked her brother upside the head, and with a glower silenced any other comments the Dwarves might have had. When silence reigned for several long moments, Dís gave them a sharp nod and turned back to Thorin and Bilbo with her most pleasant princess smile in place. “We stopped by because we all wanted to tell the two of your how happy we are for you. Even those of us who thought you might have done things a bit out of order.” At this she gave Drogo a glare that kept him from commenting. “No matter what ridiculous decisions you might have made that led to this point,” and there was a glower for Thorin, “We are overjoyed for you and your bonding.” While Bilbo would’ve agreed with her yesterday, he could feel the bond thrumming at the back of his mind and it was difficult to be upset with Thorin when things had turned out alright in the end.

 

Frerin took his place beside his sister, as was his role as the oldest in their family aside from Thorin. He raised his goblet, with every Dwarf, Hobbit, Elf, and Wizard echoing the motion. “To Bilbo and Thorin. May their days be long, and their laugher plentiful. Particularly Bilbo’s laughter at the expense of my brother.” Amidst the anticipated giggles, everyone raised a glass and echoed their congratulations.

 

The toast was enough to break up the momentum of the confetti fight, sending Dwalin and Balin back to luring Adalgrim into a drinking game, while Drogo glowered at all three of them. Frerin ignored the look Dís gave him and made his way over to his wicked cousins, taking a spot beside Drogo. Fili and Kili ignored the drinking and climbed right into the laps of Elrond’s sons, demanding to know how the two of them had managed to avoid getting hit in the little scuffle and yet hit everyone else. Óin caught the questions and plopped down beside Elladan, the two Guides giving the boys the most basic of lessons on their Gifts. Kaib refused to share a bench with an Elf, but Óin’s threat that, “If Uncle Kaib didn’t learn to sit on a sofa he’d be sleeping on one,” was enough to force him into good behavior. Elladan, of course, had been on his best behavior since he was born, so no threatening was necessary.

 

Gandalf and Elrond shared a pipe while they watched the younglings scamper about. It was the sight of them, quiet but pleased, that made Thorin turn to his sister and ask, “ _Adad_?” He was unable to keep the hope out of his voice. He knew better, but it was impossible not to wonder. After all, his brother had been given back to him, as had all his Dwarves, it wasn’t too far off the mark to wonder if maybe his father had been set to rights as well.

 

Dís’s smile fell to something closer to a grimace, and she gave him a small shake of her head. Thorin spared a moment to feel the pain, then gave Bilbo’s hand a squeeze. He would never stop hurting over his father, but he had family around him now, people who loved him, and the other half of his soul. They were more than enough to make up for the lack, but still, he would always spare a moment for what he had lost.

 

“He hasn’t left the treasury since I sent him down during the battle.”

 

“Are he and Grandfather well?”

 

“Yes.” Dís donned a tone that implied she wouldn’t take it well if Thorin was thinking she’d lef them there to stave. “Dwalin made a list of those guards he trusted the most and they’ve been rotating through, two on the only door that Grandfather will allow to be unlocked, and one actually with them in the room.”

 

“The shifts—”

 

Dís put a hand on her brother’s shoulder to calm him. “Are short enough that they shouldn’t be feeling the pull of the gold. Dwalin made sure to choose those Dwarves who chose to work with lesser metals so they wouldn’t be predisposed to succumb to the influence. And he’s keeping even our most distant cousins as far away as he can.”

 

Thorin gave a pained almost-smile at that, the concerns of the real world already invading. “Dwalin is one of those cousins.”

 

“Which is why he put Dori in charge of the rotation. Apparently Nori, scamp that he is, has started herding Father and Grandfather to the farthest corner of the treasury so that we can begin thinning out the gold stored there.”

 

“They’ll notice that gold is missing when they eventually have to leave the treasury.”

 

“The gold is piled so high that it’s nearly a wall along the path coming in and out. Nori believes we can leave the wall intact so they don’t notice the gold on the other side dwindling, and being changed into something more useful and less likely to tempt a dragon.”

 

“ _Nori_ suggested?” Thorin raised a teasing eyebrow, more content now that he was assured everything was in hand.

 

“There is a reason he’s head of our brother’s guard. Honestly, if you gave the two of them free reign for a month we wouldn’t have any of these petty problems.”

 

Frerin and his overfull mug slouched up against his sister. “Now don’t be mean. We could have this nonsense handled in a week. Particularly if Thorin promised me immunity against the Iron Hills.”

 

Dís gave her brother a swift elbow to the ribs, but it wasn’t enough to stop Thorin from asking, “And why would you need immunity from Dain?” When neither sibling responded, Thorin sighed. “What has Hagaa been doing?” Thorin was not a stupid Dwarf, so when Bilbo’s mouth puckered in displeasure at the mention of the Dwarrowdam, he didn’t chuckle.

 

Elladan grinned, looking up from his conversation with the boys. “Whatever she’s planning, it shouldn’t be a problem, you’re bonded to each other after all.”

 

“I would that Dwarven logic was quite so direct.” Bilbo couldn’t fathom a world in which Hagaa would have a path to interfere with him and Thorin, but Frerin was the strategist of the family.

 

“You can’t mean…” Elladan trailed off, too horrified to bring himself to finish the question.

 

“I don’t know what they’d think to do, but I’ve got people on the lookout for something despicable.” Bilbo looked a cross between terrified and furious, and Frerin stepped forward to soothe him. “But no matter what they seek to do, they cannot undo your bond.”

 

“But they can make other problems for us, can’t they?” Bilbo had the same resigned sort of tone that Thorin had when he spoke of his father.

 

And like Bilbo, Thorin reached out to his partner and gave his hand a squeeze. “That is a problem for tomorrow, is it not?”

 

“It _is_ tomorrow,” Bilbo objected

 

Thorin put his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders and gave the Hobbit a little shake to keep him from dropping in to worry. “Then we will put it aside for another tomorrow.”

 

“But—”

 

Thorin cupped Bilbo’s smooth jaw between his palms. “My father, my grandfather, the gold, the council, Hagaa, these are all things for tomorrow. Tonight Bilbo, tonight is about you and me. We spent years apart, and I’m not going to waste our time together fussing over things we cannot change. Whatever they bring, we’ll deal with it tomorrow, you and I.”

 

Dís gave a wholly unsubtle clearing of her throat and drew the lovers’ attention to the room full of people who would do all in their power to protect them both. Thorin slipped his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and pulled the Hobbit tight to his chest. It was one thing to bask in the beauty of their bond when they were safe in the heart of the Stones, but it was difficult to keep up the same ease when the real world demanded their attention. Bilbo had hoped that bonding would be all it took to make the world around them right itself, but he knew better. There was a world beyond them, and things that they still had to face. But none of that seemed quite so pressing when he had his Sentinel in his arms and his family at his side.

 

Bilbo’s face broke into a bright grin and the whole room felt his pleasure. “I do believe that you’re right, Thorin. But don’t go expecting me to say that sort of thing ever again, I doubt it will be a common occurrence.” The people around them broke into laugher, turning back to their conversations and putting aside the troubles they knew would be waiting for them in the world outside.

 

“I’m not entirely useless, you know,” Thorin teased, his breath hot against Bilbo’s ear.

 

“I had noticed that, yes.” Bilbo gave him the kind of lascivious smirk that he’d learned from Adalgrim.

 

“I meant I might actually be capable of providing you with the same sort of quality advice that you’ve given me. I am a _de facto_ king, after all.”

 

“And yet, O King, you’ve been taking advice from a Hobbit.”

 

“Ah yes, the crazy things a person does when they’re in love.”

 

Bonded and bedded though they were, Bilbo still couldn’t help the blush that spread across his cheeks. Nor could Thorin stop the need to lean in and press a soft kiss to his Hobbit’s lips. “We have time, my love,” he murmured. “And time is all we need.”


End file.
